The Mentalist: Red Specter
by Donnamour1969
Summary: NOW CONCLUDED! Patrick Jane is a psychic and a conman, his life untouched by tragedy until he makes one fatal mistake. With Red John plotting revenge, Jane seeks protection from retired CBI Agent, Teresa Lisbon, whose personal loss makes her Jane's perfect ally. AU. Rated T/M for adult language and content. Thanks to whomever made this awesome cover for me!
1. Part I, Ch 1-7

**A/N: Hi! Many of you may remember this fic from about a year ago. I stopped writing it and deleted it from my list of stories, mainly because I was really blocked about it and was unhappy with where my mind was taking it. Still, it has always bothered me that I never finished it, and a reader recently messaged me about this missing story. I went back and re-read what I had written, and I'm now able to see this story with new eyes. Since I am between projects right now, I have some time to come out of retirement and work on finishing this. I've reposted the first 7 original chapters as Part I. I can't remember if I ever posted chapter 7, but I included it here because it was part of my original story. Part II will pick up with chapter 8, and I'll post each chapter individually now, as I write them. I hope you will welcome the return of this fic.**

 **Original A/N:** This story is a bit more serious than my usual fare, which is as it should be, I think, considering it partly centers on Red John. In this universe, there is no Angela or Charlotte, and Jane has evolved into the man you would expect without real love in his life. Conversely, without Jane, Lisbon has had far less joy in hers. But don't worry, this won't be a total downer, because I believe fate will always bring these two lost souls together, no matter what universe...

 **Red Specter, Part I**

 **Chapter 1**

"Dear God," whispered Teresa Lisbon, as she stared at the crime scene photos. A man with beautiful blonde curls, matted with blood, lay on expensive marble tile, his throat cut, his torso eviscerated. Blue-green eyes stared sightlessly into the camera.

"Thought you'd want to see these," said CBI Special Agent Kimball Cho. He took another drink of the beer she'd given him and sat back against her couch. Her apartment was just like the last time he'd seen it—boxes still stacked against one wall, impersonal beige furnishings. She didn't spend much time here, even now.

Lisbon looked up from the disturbing images, and the pair of former coworkers exchanged a meaningful glance. The photos brought back painful memories for both of them.

"Yeah. Thanks."

"Malibu PD says it was a case of mistaken identity," added Cho.

She raised her eyebrows in surprise. Red John never made mistakes. That's why he hadn't been caught yet, even after sixteen grisly murders.

"Who was the intended victim?"

"Patrick Jane."

Lisbon's eyes widened. The dead man did look oddly familiar. "The pyschic?"

Cho's grimace of distaste was barely perceptible, but Lisbon had known Cho for ten years, and recognized the expression immediately.

"Yeah. The victim was Jane's bodyguard," he continued, "Matt Denney, specially chosen to look like Jane to divert the paparazzi and the hoards of groupies who follow him around."

Patrick Jane was host of his own syndicated TV show, _Crossing Over, With Patrick Jane._ For an hour every day, he came into the living rooms of millions, impressing them with his psychic abilities, connecting people to their lost loved ones on the other side. Giving them hope that death was not really the end. His movie star good looks made him a media darling, and he'd graced the cover of every magazine from _Woman's Day_ to _Gentlemen's Quarterly_. If you believed _People,_ he was the sexiest man alive. What's more, he had an Emmy and a People's Choice Award to lend him some respectability, lifting his show above the Jerry Springers of the talk show world. His showmanship skills swayed even the most skeptical to at least give some credence to the possibility of communication with the dearly departed.

But no awards or honors could sway Lisbon or Cho from their opinions. They'd seen too many conmen in their long careers in law enforcement not to be skeptical.

"Why does Red John want to kill Patrick Jane?" Lisbon asked.

Cho reached down to the leather messenger bag he'd brought with him. He opened it and brought out his tablet, before turning it on and pulling up a video.

"Here," he said, pressing the _play_ arrow on the touch screen.

It was a scene from Jane's show, and the man himself was standing onstage in one of his trademark, three-piece Italian suits. Lisbon was struck anew by the man's incredible looks, and she marveled how his rich voice and penetrating eyes captivated even her-appealing to the woman's heart she worked so hard to ignore. No wonder he had such a devoted following, she mused.

It was near the end of his show, where Jane took questions from the live audience.

A nervous looking woman in a blue blouse stood at the microphone between the rows of comfortable chairs. (Ever since Jane had mentioned in an interview his favorite color, his audience always looked like a veritable ocean of varying shades of blue).

 _Patrick,_ she began rather breathlessly. _I've heard that you've worked with the police in the past, helping them to solve tough cases where they are at a dead end. Have you received any revelations about the identity of the serial killer, Red John?_

Jane hesitated, tapping his bottom lip thoughtfully with a long, graceful index finger, calculated no doubt to draw one's attention to the sensual fullness of his mouth.

 _I have, Elizabeth,_ he replied after a moment, pleasing her and the audience with his usual shtick of appearing to magically know her name. _Red John has killed several women-terrible, sadistic crimes, and such evil always disturbs the peace of the psychic realm. True demonic evil burns like fire, it burns with a cold, dark flame. I've forced myself to look into that flame, and I've seen the image of the evildoer. Red John is an ugly, tormented little man, a lonely soul. Sad. Very sad…_

Lisbon gasped at his audacity—taunting a serial killer like that on national television probably hadn't been the best idea. He continued heedlessly on, speaking about how the police had once asked for his input on the case. Red John's identity was slowly taking shape in his mind, he said, but his face was still in the shadows.

Yeah, right, thought Lisbon sardonically.

The video ended amidst enthusiastic applause.

"Well," said Lisbon, "we know now Jane's not really a psychic, or he would have stopped his bodyguard from being killed."

That sounded unkind, even to her, and Lisbon shook her head. "Sorry," she said sheepishly.

"Looks like he's in need of a new bodyguard," said Cho casually.

Lisbon paled, her back stiffening. "No. This is Red John, Kimball. I—I can't do it."

"You should be on this case," he said, moving to the edge of the couch. His dark eyes were even more serious than usual. "I can't be, but this is a way now that you can."

She rose jerkily from the couch and began pacing before the coffee table, the crime scene photos of Patrick Jane's doppelganger taunting her from the coffee table. Cho watched his former boss, feeling a twinge of pain as he too remembered that day a year and a half ago, when they'd found Rigsby, Van Pelt, and Sam Bosco murdered by Red John because they'd gotten dangerously close to the killer.

"I was pretty messed up afterwards," she said softly, stopping her nervous movements to stand in front of him.

"I was too," Cho admitted.

But no way had the stoic Cho fallen as far as she had, thought Lisbon. She remembered the drinking binge she'd gone on after their deaths, a binge that lasted a good three months before she finally hauled herself to an AA meeting. By then, her job with the CBI was in the toilet, and she wasn't sure she'd ever have the stomach to go back to working homicide.

"Yeah, but you stayed on at the CBI. The shrink cleared you for duty—"

"But they took me off of the Red John case anyway. Whatever Bosco had found that day had been a major breakthrough, I'm sure of it. If Red John hadn't had a mole in the CBI…"

There were a lot of unanswered questions, a lot of what-ifs. They had never discovered who the mole was, and Sam's new information had died with him. Cho was now in Lisbon's old position as lead agent of the Serious Crimes unit, and while he no longer worked the Red John case, the new agents who had taken over did him the professional courtesy of keeping Cho (quietly) apprised of any new developments. This was how he'd obtained the grisly photos of poor Matt Denney.

"It would only take a phone call, a recommendation from the CBI to get you on Jane's private security detail. Red John made a mistake—you know this will make him want to come after Jane even harder. This is our chance to get him."

"By using Patrick Jane as bait?"

Cho shrugged. "You'd be there to protect him."

"I'm not sure I'm up to it," she whispered, her eyes glistening down at him.

"Yes you are. It's been almost two years. And I'll do whatever I can to help you."

She still appeared hesitant, uncertain, and her lack of confidence was hard for Cho to watch, after the strong, no-nonsense cop she used to be. But she'd built a successful security business all on her own in the intervening year, pulled herself up by the proverbial bootstraps. He admired her for that, and he wouldn't have come to her home with this if he hadn't thought she could handle it now. They couldn't pass up this opportunity, a twist of fate that had re-opened the door for both of them. The only thing that would allow either of them to move on would be getting Red John—dead or alive.

Cho played his trump card.

"Don't do it for us, Boss…do it for them," he said shamelessly.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

 _ **Eight hours earlier…**_

Patrick Jane got out of his borrowed BMW and strode up to his Malibu home. His own car, a red Porsche convertible, was parked in front of him in the circle drive. Matt Denney, his bodyguard/personal assistant, had only been an hour ahead of him from Los Angeles, driving Jane's car because Jane had mentioned there might be something wrong with the brakes. Matt took his job of protecting Jane very seriously, and because of this, among a multitude of other things he did for him daily, Jane had come to think of the man as more than just an assistant. He was probably the only true friend Jane had in LA.

Fingering the correct key on Matt's key ring, Jane walked up the front steps leading to the door, the moonlight glinting eerily off the glass walls. Odd that nowhere could he see a light shining within the house, and Matt hadn't even left the porch light on for him. Not like Matt at all.

Jane's senses tingled; something wasn't right.

He felt for the key hole and inserted Matt's key, but found that the door was already unlocked.

He thought briefly of returning to Matt's car and retrieving the gun he kept in the glove box, but the house seemed quiet, and Jane hated guns (though he certainly knew how to use one). His comments about Red John from the show yesterday flitted through his mind, but he put them resolutely aside. Instead, he pushed open the door. It moved inside the house about a foot and stopped. Something was blocking it.

Jane had a sickening feeling he knew what was preventing him from opening that door, and his heartbeat accelerated alarmingly.

"Matt?" he said aloud, his voice breaking with his fear.

He pushed harder on the door, managing to open it enough that he could squeeze inside. He slipped on something wet on the marble tile, fell heavily against the foyer wall, gasping and struggling blindly for balance.

Nearly brought to his knees, Jane reached up to flip a switch with a shaking hand.

In the glaring light, he cried out his shock, horror suffusing him.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Jane poured his second glass of scotch of the evening, and settled into the overstuffed leather couch in his dressing room. He leaned his head back into the butter soft cushion, closing his eyes, but the image of his carved up friend was still as clear as if he were there in the room with him.

For the first time in years, Jane felt deep regret and guilt at his own actions. From Boy Wonder in the carnival to celebrity Psychic, he'd successfully suppressed that weak side of himself, the side for marks who allowed themselves to be guilted into doing what they really didn't want to do. Thus, Jane had built his career on the pretense of caring, of feigned empathy. He wasn't faking now, however. Too bad no one would ever be able to tell how much Matt's murder had truly affected him.

His own arrogance and audacity, inciting a serial killer as he had, put the blame squarely on Jane's head—there was no denying it. Indeed, public opinion likely shared in this belief, as every media outlet replayed those fateful last three minutes of yesterday's live show, over and over, before extolling the virtues of his late bodyguard. There had even been some rumblings that maybe Jane himself had been the murderer, that since anonymous sources stated that Red John hadn't left his usual bloody face calling card, it couldn't have been the serial killer. His publicist was going crazy, releasing a statement of deep regret that Jane hadn't actually written, trying desperately to curtail the damage to his reputation.

Needless to say, Jane didn't feel much like filming any more shows anytime soon, despite pressure to get back on the horse and put a positive spin on this whole terrible situation. For the first time in his life, show business seemed infinitely unimportant while the specter of Red John still loomed over him. Jane knew in his heart the madman wasn't through with him yet. Red John's mistake in killing the wrong man would have only outraged the killer further. It would seem to Red John that Jane had made him look like a dupe yet again, and that wouldn't sit well with an arrogant psychopath.

Jane downed the rest of his scotch, jumping out of his skin at the sudden knock on his door. Pulse pounding, he tried to calm himself by remembering that the local police, in conjunction with the CBI, had left two armed guards outside his door for protection. He took a deep breath, forcing himself to set down his glass on the end table and rise shakily to his feet.

He went to the door.

"Who is it?" he asked, pleased he sounded his usual confident self.

"Your new bodyguard is here," said one of the policemen through the door. Funny, he'd sounded almost…snide.

Relief coursing through him, he unlocked and opened his dressing room door. He had to lower his gaze at least a foot to meet the eyes of the woman standing before him, and he felt his eyebrows rising in surprise before he could help himself. He took her in in one quick glance, thought he would have liked to linger on her russet brown waves of hair at her shoulders, her deep green eyes, and lower, on the tantalizing fullness beneath her black t-shirt, the seductive curves within her jeans.

"Agent Lisbon I presume?" 

The woman's Irish complexion grew slightly whiter still.

"Not anymore," she said, and he could tell she was forcing her voice to remain clipped, professional. _Interesting._ "I'm Teresa Lisbon, Lisbon Security."

"Oh." He shook her proffered hand, finding it cool and dry. He had the strange desire to warm it between his two much larger hands, but he released her after a polite moment.

She continued to stand uncomfortably in the doorway between the two policemen, who seemed amused at Jane's reaction to the diminutive woman.

"We'll return your weapon before you leave, Miss Lisbon," one guard said, making a show of putting her Glock in his uniform pocket.

Her expression remained stern, but she nodded her understanding. They were just doing their jobs, after all. It had been a good idea to search her before she came in.

Jane stepped aside, belatedly finding his manners. "Please, come in."

After he closed and re-locked the door, Jane's brain kicked back into gear. He turned to his guest, his face a pleasant mask.

"I'm sorry, Ms. Lisbon, but there seems to have been a mistake," he said, indicating that she sit on his couch. He grimaced at his own words. There had been many unfortunate mistakes lately. Lisbon remained standing, and he found himself smiling inside at her obstinacy. Maybe this hadn't been a mistake after all, he thought wryly.

"No mistake on my part," she said. "Agent Cho called me, said he'd recommended my personal security services to you, so here I am."

"He said you were a former CBI agent, a weapons expert, incredible in hand-to-hand combat, a black belt in Karate—"

"Yes. All true. You seem to be a man of the world, Mr. Jane. Haven't you heard the old expression about books and their covers?"

"I apologize if I've misjudged you, Ms. Lisbon, but under the circumstances, I was hoping for someone a bit more…imposing. You _have_ been apprised of what happened last night…"

She considered him blandly, and Jane had the feeling she was the one sizing _him_ up, not the other way around, which is usually expected when one is interviewing a prospective employee.

"I'm sorry for your loss," she said, with the first sign of real emotion. But then her jaw hardened again as she continued. "I was once lead agent on the Red John case, Mr. Jane, so I understand the intricacies of your position, the gravity of your situation. Because of my personal experience, I can offer an insight that no one else can. You need protection now—I think you realize that-which is why you took Cho up on his offer to contact me. I can protect you. You won't find anyone better."

He was at once shocked by her revelation and duly impressed by it, but he still found himself skeptical. Matt had been deceptively strong and skilled, himself, so Jane should have known better than to make snap judgments, but then, look at what had happened to him. But Jane realized that there was definitely more to Teresa Lisbon than met the eye, and as he focused on her more intently, he began to get a better read on her.

"Red John killed someone you cared about," he stated.

A shadow crossed her face, but she held her determined little chin high. "Yes. Colleagues with the CBI."

"Ah," he said, seeming to understand everything now. He could tell she was annoyed by that.

"That is the kind of arrogance that will get you killed," she said weightily.

He visibly blanched, but recovered quickly. She too was good at reading people. "I'm sorry if I offended you, Ms. Lisbon. That is what I do."

"Offend people? So I've seen." She returned to business. "Now, I suggest we get you to a safe house I know about—no stopping to retrieve any personal items. My car won't be familiar to anyone, so if we disguise you well enough, go out a back way—"

Jane held up a hand. "Wait. I don't believe I've hired you for the job."

She surprised him yet again by joining him on the couch. Her small hand rested lightly on the cushion beside his knee, as she looked seriously into his eyes.

"You may not realize it, but you need me, Mr. Jane, and you don't have time to interview a bunch of muscle-bound nannies. I've been in law enforcement for twenty years; I know what I'm doing. You'll just have to trust me."

Like he'd imagined doing just minutes before, his hand covered hers, and he surprised himself with his own honesty.

"I'm not very good at that," he said softly, and he had the not unpleasant sensation that he was falling from a very high cliff.

Her lips quirked wryly. "Neither am I." Her dimples abruptly disappeared, and a compelling intensity burned in her eyes. "But I can promise you this, Mr. Jane: if Red John gets within a mile of you, he'll be dead before he takes another step."

"Not if I kill him first," said Jane, his voice deadly serious.

She nodded. They understood each other perfectly.

Jane sighed in resignation, gave her just a hint of his devastating smile.

"So, tell me more about this safe house. Does it have a comfortable couch?"

 **Chapter 2**

"You could have told me the safe house was in Sacramento," said Jane in annoyance. He'd always hated feeling _handled_ , had never allowed it by anyone, from agent to publicist. That's one of the things he'd liked about Matt, he realized sadly. He'd never tried to control him.

"I flew down here from Sacramento and rented this car," Lisbon was explaining, as they traveled through the night in the nondescript, black sedan. "I figured we should get you out of LA for awhile. Your habits and hangouts are too well-known around there. I bet you could by a map with your home on it from any corner vendor. And an airport is way too public—you have to show your ID."

He supposed he could see the logic in that.

"Still, you could have told me, Ms. Lisbon."

"I didn't want to run the risk of your freaking out on me, wanting to go by your place and get things for the trip. Everything you'll need is at the house."

He looked down at the navy blue t-shirt and blue jeans he'd donned at her insistence before they'd left his dressing room. His suits would have been a dead giveaway of his identity—so to speak. At least she'd let him keep his lucky brown shoes.

"I don't freak out," he said. "Although, I might _break out_ —in hives. I don't think this shirt is one-hundred percent cotton. And these jeans are way too long. I actually had to roll them up like a teenage girl."

"Sorry. You look much taller on TV," she said with a smirk.

He realized he was sounding a bit like a diva, the stereotypical demanding celebrity. He sighed. He was just tired, still somewhat in shock over finding Matt's mutilated body. He wished he'd thought to grab his bottle of scotch.

"I apologize, Ms. Lisbon. I know you're looking out for me. I'm just not myself…"

She understood completely. She'd been the one to find her coworkers, shot, then butchered, the vivid smiling face of blood on Bosco's office wall. For the second time that day, she wished for a drink.

"It's just _Lisbon_ ," she said, changing the subject.

"What, you mean one name, like _Madonna_?"

She felt her lips quirk in spite of herself. "I've been in law enforcement a long time, Mr. Jane. Last names always seem easier to remember."

"More impersonal, you mean. Call me Patrick, then."

She shook her head. "I'm afraid I can't do that-occupational hazard."

"Well, leave off the _mister_. I'll just be Jane."

Her hands tightened briefly on the steering wheel as she tried not to smile. "Fine."

Jane looked at her delicate profile, saw how hard she was suppressing her emotions. She was so tense.

"It's okay to smile, Lisbon," he said quietly. "Even laugh, if you want. No one's going to see but me."

"It's unprofessional. And inappropriate, under the circumstances."

"Hmm."

They were both quiet for a few miles, and then Jane's stomach growled audibly. He realized he hadn't had anything but scotch all day.

"Look, you think we're far enough down the road to stop for a sandwich or something?"

She glanced at him sidelong, considering. She wasn't too keen on stopping for anything, but neither could she avoid making a pit stop or two. It was a long drive.

"We can drive through somewhere. And you'll have to put your hat back on, or lie down in the back seat."

"Oh, come on, Lisbon. I've got other needs to tend to besides an empty stomach. Don't tell me you're wearing adult diapers or something."

She didn't dignify that with an answer.

They passed a spot-lit billboard advertising a diner famous for its homemade pies, one mile ahead.

"There," he said, pointing. "That's the place. I could do with a piece of apple pie al a mode. And I bet you could too."

She couldn't deny her love for anything apple, but that wasn't the point.

"Okay. But no more than thirty minutes, tops. Anyone makes you, and it'll be all over social media before you can blink."

Jane nodded. He knew from personal experience how very true that was.

"Deal," agreed Jane.

And Red John would know even quicker, thought Lisbon, if her past experience with the killer still held water. He had lots of eyes and ears out there, which made the man even more dangerous.

Xxxxxxxxxxxx

It was difficult not to be amused by the debonair Patrick Jane, clad in his cheap clothing and bad baseball cap/attached black wig ensemble. He'd done a fairly good job of stuffing his blonde curls inside the hat. At least he'd agreed to the disguise. While he wolfed down a club sandwich and then the pie and ice cream, Lisbon sipped her coffee. She wondered what his legion of fans would think, seeing their idol slumming in a greasy spoon.

"Eat your pie, Lisbon," he ordered, as if he knew her. She thought about refusing just for the principle of the thing—he had ordered it without her consent after all. She watched as the melting ice cream formed a puddle beneath the warm pie in her bowl. It looked amazing.

She sighed. It had been a long time since she'd eaten. She picked up her spoon, and Jane grinned. She felt like punching him.

She was tense and tired, and very wary about sitting there for any longer than they had to, especially when she noticed a couple in a booth near them, the woman whispering to the man while nodding surreptitiously toward Jane.

She carefully set down her spoon again. "You need to hurry up," she murmured to her charge.

"What?" he asked, mouth full of his dessert. "Why?"

Lisbon accidentally made eye contact with the woman, who took that as an invitation. She groaned internally. The woman rose to her feet, bringing with her a napkin and a pen she'd borrowed from her husband. It was too late to move.

"Oh, God," she said. "We've got company."

Jane froze, kept his eyes averted, and pulled his hat down lower over his forehead. Years of playing the con allowed him to fall easily into his role.

"Hey," said the middle-aged woman, her red curly hair bouncing around her shoulders. She wasn't even looking at Lisbon now. "I'm sorry to bother you, but…are you that actor from that detective show?"

Jane stared at Lisbon for a split second, before his amused grin split his handsome face. He looked up at the woman with a charming sparkle in his eye.

"Yes," he said, lowering his voice conspiratorially. "But you have to pretend you don't know who I am, and any pictures would ruin the surprise. I'm researching a story for my show."

"Ohhh," she said, as if that explained everything. "Sure. Of course. That explains the hat and wig." She set the napkin before him. "Would you mind…?"

He took the proffered pen. "No problem. What's your name, dear?"

"Lilian."

Lisbon watched in awe as he wrote his best wishes and signed the name, _Simon Baker._ He returned Lilian's belongings, dispatching her quickly with the repeated warning that he was _under cover_ for his role.

"Well, thank you for the autograph," she exclaimed, sotto vocce. "You are just as nice as you seem on TV. And I have to say, you and that Robin Tunney are adorable together!"

"Thanks, Lilian. I'll be sure to tell her."

The fan went back to her husband and Lisbon let go the breath she'd been holding.

"She almost gave me a heart attack," she said, hiding her grimace behind her coffee. She signaled for the waitress to bring the ticket.

Jane chuckled softly and took another bite of pie. Lisbon's eyebrows knit.

" _Simon Baker_?"

Jane shrugged. "I get that a lot. Personally, I think I'm much better looking…"

"Well, that was too close. No more stops, okay?" Next time, someone might _really_ recognize him.

Jane merely raised an eyebrow.

He finished his pie and took out his wallet to pay the tab. She didn't protest, even though he laid down a hundred-dollar bill; she was anxious to get back on the road.

"Let's go," she said tightly. Lilian and her husband smiled at them as they passed their table on their way out of the diner. Jane adjusted his hat/wig and winked.

xxxxxxxxxxxxx

"I saw the video of your show yesterday," Lisbon said after another hour of driving. Jane had been staring out the windshield into the blackness, eyes wide open. She felt him stiffen in his chair, though she didn't actually see him move.

"Probably the stupidest thing I've ever done," he said gravely.

She didn't comment.

Jane didn't know if he should be pleased or insulted that she didn't try to comfort him, didn't try to placate his guilt by saying Matt's death wasn't his fault, didn't say that there was no way he could possibly be to blame for the actions of a murderer. He longed to have absolution, but in his heart, Jane knew he didn't deserve it. The truth was, he _was_ to blame.

"Was it true what you said?" she asked now. "That you were consulting with the police about Red John?"

"Yes," he replied cautiously.

"What could you tell them?"

"I'm really not a psychic, Ms. Lisbon." As if that was some earth-shattering confession.

He almost missed her small, derisive snort. "Oh, I know that. But you must be pretty good at deduction, or profiling people-something to that effect, otherwise the police wouldn't have given you the time of day." She wondered why Cho hadn't mentioned this information. Maybe he hadn't known about it either…

"Police often talk to psychics. It's more common than you think," he said a bit defensively.

"Yeah, okay."

"Scoff all you want, but it's true. You were a cop, right?"

"Yes. But I personally never enlisted a psychic. When I was with San Francisco PD, I saw it happen—once. And it was only because the woman had been a witness to the crime. I'm afraid you watch too many detective shows. That Simon Baker one, maybe?"

He ignored the barb. "Well, I've been a consultant on several cases for the LAPD. Helped solve a few too."

"Because you're famous," she reasoned. "And you must be good at reading people, like I said. And like _you_ said, you're not really a psychic. What did you tell the police about Red John?"

"What's the point in saying now? It's obviously made no difference in capturing him. If it had, Matt would still be alive."

"It matters to me," she said softly.

His eyes zeroed in on her face, pale in the light from the dashboard.

"I can see that," he said meaningfully. He was quiet a moment, considering.

"It was about two years ago, actually," he said, his elegant voice filling the rental car. "A man from the CBI came to the studio, to my dressing room. He told me flat out that his boss was making him talk to me, that he thought it was a waste of his time talking to a psychic. His boss had heard that I had given valuable insight to the San Francisco PD about the San Joaquin killer, which had led to his capture. The police agreed to leave my name out of it in the press. Anyway, the guy brought pictures from some of Red John's crime scenes, asked me to take a look."

Lisbon's mind was racing. Two years ago, the Serious Crimes Unit at the Sacramento branch of the CBI had been in charge of the Red John case— _her_ unit. She suddenly froze, her heart giving a squeeze that made her breath seize in her throat. She'd never known the CBI had enlisted a psychic.

"What was the man's name?" she said, her voice coming out in a strangled squeak.

Jane thought a moment. "I don't remember—I guess it wasn't important enough to me at the time. I didn't like the guy, that much I _do_ remember. Thought he was a bit of a bully, quite honestly, and I probably told him so, knowing me. He obviously didn't like me either. Called me a clown, if I recall, which was ironic, since he reminded me a bit of one himself, actually. But that's about all I remember about him…"

She swallowed, struggling to slow her breath, her hands tight on the steering wheel, her neck tense with the strain of keeping herself together. She wanted a drink more than life itself.

"Lisbon," he said softly, reaching out tentatively to touch her arm. She didn't seem to feel it. "You knew that man who came to see me." It wasn't a question.

"I—I think it was Sam Bosco," she said haltingly. "I worked with him in Sacramento."

Realization had dawned for both of them.

"He was one of your colleagues killed by Red John," said Jane. "Because of what I told him."

Her head whipped toward him, and the car swayed a little toward the other lane. Jane just resisted grabbing the wheel before Lisbon righted the car again. Abruptly, she moved into the far right lane and pulled over to the shoulder, the sedan jerking to a stop. Lisbon flipped on the hazard lights and turned to face him.

"What did you say to him?" she ground out, her voice gravelly and demanding, her eyes intense. When a lumbering semi-truck made their car shake, Lisbon showed no concern; her world narrowed down to whatever Patrick Jane was about to tell her.

Jane watched her as closely as he could in the dark car, gauging how much she could handle. He wondered what she was expecting to hear. He himself couldn't imagine how his telling her now would help anything. The man was dead.

"I told him I thought Red John was in law enforcement."

"What?" she gasped. "How could you possibly know that?"

He felt slightly offended. This was what had made him a multi-millionaire, after all. He sighed condescendingly, then began ticking off his suppositions like he was ordering from a restaurant.

"Red John likes control. He likes giving orders. He's a narcissist, though he's pretty ordinary looking. Thinning hair. He probably lives with his mother, or a sister. He's methodical and tidy, keeps himself very clean. Likely has some serious issues with paranoia or some unusual phobia…"

Jane's voice trailed off as he suddenly began paying attention to his own words. His opinion hadn't changed from his initial viewing of Bosco's file, but now, his reading of the serial killer was more than just an emotionless reading, more than just his showing off. He realized that these were actual clues to Red John's identity, characteristics that he'd seemed to know instinctively. Had people died because Red John had known there was truth to them?

Lisbon stared at the professed psychic, her mind racing with the implications of his conjectures. Whether or not this was all just bullshit speculation, even the great skeptic, Sam Bosco, had taken at least some of it seriously. Maybe Jane's words had triggered a connection in her dead friend's mind; maybe he'd been able to match some of his clues with Jane's reading. Who knows? The day Red John struck down her friends, Bosco had been prepared to share what he knew, and knowledge, as she was beginning to discover, could be a death sentence. It had only been dumb luck that she and Cho had been running late to that meeting; otherwise, they'd have been part of Red John's growing pile of bodies.

"It makes sense that Red John is in law enforcement," Lisbon said, as if to herself.

She sounded much calmer now, as her detective instincts kicked in and she began making her own connections, sifting through the Red John files in her mind. When she had worked for the CBI, she'd made personal copies of those files. There had been a lot of them, and it was against Bureau policy, but she'd made them and kept them nonetheless. Even now they were in her closet in her apartment, stacked beneath quilts and linens that had been her mother's. She needed to start looking at those files again, with Jane's new insights in mind. Perhaps that's what Bosco had done…

"Yes," agreed Jane. "How else would he have known what I told Sam Bosco?"

A blinding light shone now in their rear windshield, and Jane and Lisbon both looked in the rearview mirrors.

"Shit," muttered Lisbon. It was a state patrolman. He approached the driver's side, heavy black flashlight in hand. Lisbon rolled down the window, and the young officer directed the light briefly at her face. She squinted in annoyance, though she knew the purpose of the training behind everything he did.

"Everything all right, ma'am?" he asked politely, though in his position, she knew he must be incredibly edgy every time he approached an unknown vehicle on the side of a busy freeway.

"Yes, Officer," she replied. "We were uh, just having a conversation that needed my undivided attention."

Jane got the spotlight treatment, and he wished he hadn't tossed his hat/wig so far back into the backseat. When the man's eyes widened in recognition, Jane's heart skipped a beat. If Red John was indeed in law enforcement, this could well be a disastrous turn of events.

"May I see both your identifications," directed the patrolman. He watched their moves carefully, his hidden hand no doubt on his sidearm. Jane withdrew his wallet from his jeans pocket, and Lisbon took her driver's license from her small wallet on the center console.

"I should notify you, Officer," said Lisbon calmly, "that I have a registered weapon locked in the glove box. I'm former CBI and currently a licensed security expert. My permit is in with the gun." She could feel the man's tension increase tenfold at her announcement, but to an untrained eye, he would seem unruffled. That she was armed was news to Jane as well, and he decided immediately he was pleased with the information.

By then, the patrolman had glanced at her ID, then Jane's, confirming his identity.

"You're a long way from home, Ms. Lisbon," he said.

"Business," she explained.

He shone the light briefly in the backseat, then again on the pair in the front.

"Well, it's pretty dangerous to stay parked on the shoulder for long. I suggest you drive to the next town or rest stop to continue your conversation."

"Yes, sir," said Lisbon obediently.

Then he looked toward Jane once more. "Mr. Jane," he said, grinning widely. "My wife never misses your show."

"Please give her my best, Officer," he replied with a pleasant smile.

The patrolman nodded. "Well, you two have a good night. Drive carefully."

He gave the side of the car a friendly pat and went back to his vehicle. She had no doubt he was noting her license plate number as he got back in.

"Shit," she said again, putting on her blinker and preparing to merge back into the relatively light, late-night traffic.

Jane didn't add anything to that statement—it summed up his feelings exactly.

They drove on in silence for a time, each absorbed in their own thoughts and fears. Another question occurred to her, this time involving Jane himself.

"How was it you didn't hear of Bosco's and the other agents' deaths two years ago? It was all over the news for weeks."

"Since you told me about it, I wondered that myself," he admitted. "When Bosco visited me, I had just finished filming the last show of that season. I usually go to Europe for a couple of weeks on vacation, and to do a few foreign ads and commercials. I'm not one for social media and much of anything to do with computers, and sadly, California crime isn't top news in Paris. Somehow I missed it, I guess. What happened, exactly?"

Lisbon hadn't spoken of the details of that day since the CBI shrink had forced her to either talk about her feelings, or it was strongly implied she would lose her job. She had lost it a week later anyway, when she'd been found passed out on the floor in her office.

Her hesitation annoyed Jane. "Look, I'm obviously part of this whole mess, unbeknownst to me. I think I have a right now to be filled in on what I missed."

"Bosco had called a meeting. Cho and I live on the same side of town, and we were both caught in morning traffic. Our colleagues"-here, her voice shook slightly—"Rigsby and Van Pelt, made it in before us. It was an early morning meeting, called before most of the rest of the building had arrived. When we finally made it there, Cho and I walked in with Bosco's secretary, who was just coming in herself with coffee and muffins for the meeting."

She shuddered, her heart racing as if she were once again back in Bosco's office. She forced herself to finish the horrifying tale.

"They were already gone. All three of them. The blood…so much blood."

She remembered how she had stepped in it before she'd realized what had happened. Grace's blood, she'd realized later. The road ahead swam briefly before her eyes. She blinked hard, taking a breath.

"And there was a smiling face on the wall, so there was no doubt who had done it."

She swallowed, trying to focus on the present, to present the information analytically. "The security tapes of that morning were mostly blank, and some were substituted with footage from a month ago. That's how we knew it was an inside job."

Lisbon's description took Jane to his own horror of just that morning, seeing Matt's blood staining his Italian marble floor. He closed his eyes briefly, willing away the dreadful image.

"And you never caught anyone? Never found a witness?" He asked.

"No."

"What about the secretary? Seems to me she'd be Suspect Number One."

"Cho and I both questioned her. She seemed just as distraught as we were. And she'd known nothing of any new Red John developments; she'd thought the meeting was about some drug trafficker case. She was transferred to San Francisco after that, I believe. Post-traumatic stress, I heard…"

"Hmm," he said. Something about this woman nagged at him, though he had never seen her before in his life. He wondered if it would be possible to speak to her sometime…

"It was a big mess for us in the media," Lisbon continued. "A tragedy. A horrible mystery. The public ate it up. The CBI was vilified, of course, for not being able to prevent something like that from happening in their own house. At least my frien—my _colleagues_ -were lauded as heroes, which is what they were…"

It was easier to call them colleagues rather than what they really had been: her friends, her family even. Their golden stars were hung now on the wall of the CBI lobby, adding to the solemn rows representing agents fallen in the line of duty. She bit her lip to stifle the sob that had welled in her throat.

The day after the ceremony, Minelli had quit, but by then her own life had already begun to spiral out of control.

"What do you suggest we do now, in Sacramento?" he asked. "I can't hide forever."

"No," she said.

Here was her opening, and now, with all of these new revelations, it was imperative in Lisbon's mind that they use this opportunity, placed in their laps like a gift. Cho had been right about seizing the day, but this might take some finessing.

"I was thinking…how would you like to help me set a trap for Red John?"

And, with the keen insight she was quickly coming to recognize, he gave her his answer.

"Yes, I would. And yes, Lisbon, I'd be happy to be the bait…"

 **Chapter 3**

At about two in the morning, they arrived in Sacramento. Lisbon exited the freeway and turned into a quiet middle class neighborhood, the streetlights dotting the curving lanes of bungalows and seventies era split-levels. On the corner of one of those streets loomed a small, beautiful Catholic church, its stained glass windows eerily dark, though its steeple was lit up by the moon, pale white against the night sky. She kept one eye on the rearview mirror, checking to see if someone had followed them off the freeway.

Jane was surprised when she pulled around to the back parking lot, and while he had noticed the gold crucifix at her throat, a church was the last place he'd expected her to take him.

"Feeling the need to confess something?" he asked, only partially kidding.

"Not yet," she said.

Jane chuckled softly, then gave an inadvertent gasp when she leaned across him to retrieve her gun from the glove box. She smelled faintly of citrus and vanilla, and her soft hair brushed his bare arm.

"Excuse me," she said belatedly, sitting back in her seat to make sure a bullet was in the chamber. Only then did she emerge from the car. His hand had just alighted on the door lever, when Lisbon stayed it. "Wait," she said quietly. She shut the driver's side door and stood in the cool evening air, looking around in the brightness of the corner streetlight. She walked around the car, looking at the quiet street they had just left. Her quick tap on his window made him jump.

"Come on," she said. He got out of the car and she locked it with the remote on her keyring.

She punched in a code on a keypad by the door and she walked in, resetting the security system when they were both safely inside.

The back of the church had been converted into a two-bedroom apartment, complete with kitchenette, bathroom and small living area. What Lisbon liked most was that there were no windows in this part of the church. It was simply furnished; the only indication that it had once been used by the church was the red carpeting. Jane raised an eyebrow.

" _This_ is your safe house?"

"Can you think of a _safer_ place?" she asked, setting down her duffle bag on the small bistro table.

"I guess it depends on the strength of your faith."

She touched her cross absently. "My point exactly."

She did a quick sweep of the apartment, and then he watched, fascinated, as she set her Glock down beside her bag. A dangerous woman, in more ways than one.

"I used to go to this church," she explained, "but then they built a larger one a few blocks away. I quietly bought this one through the priest. The front is still a chapel like it always was."

"A good cover, as far as that goes," he said in admiration.

She nodded, then inclined her head toward one of the bedrooms. "Why don't you get some sleep? We'll discuss tactics tomorrow. Cho said he'd come by."

"Cho," said Jane thoughtfully. "I imagine he wants to get Red John as badly as we do."

"Yes," she said simply. "Rigsby was his best friend."

There was nothing he could say to that, though he felt sincere empathy for the man.

"What about you?" he asked her. "I bet you're exhausted after that long drive."

"I'll be all right. I'm riding on three cups of coffee. When Cho gets here, I'll try to catch some sleep."

He took a moment to look closely at her. He didn't like the deep circles beneath her tired green eyes, though his own concern for this lovely stranger gave him pause. He couldn't remember the last time he'd mustered anything but fake compassion for anyone. But since he'd discovered Matt's body, he'd felt an unsettling shift in the walls around his heart.

"Okay," he said. "But I'd be happy to take this in shifts."

She smiled a little at him from her place on the living area couch, and the way it transformed her face did something strange to his stomach.

"You're the client, Jane, remember?"

He didn't smile in return. "After our conversation earlier, I'd like to think we're partners." If he was going to help them catch a killer, he'd like equal say in how he was going to risk his life.

Her expression sobered to match his, and she gazed at him for a heavy moment, considering.

"Fair enough," she relented.

He smiled then. "Good." He took a few steps toward the bedroom.

"Jane." He turned back to look at her. She moved to the locked drawer of a nearby desk and withdrew a small handgun. He stood completely still as she walked over to him with the weapon.

"Do you know how to use one of these?" she asked him.

He hated guns with a passion, but his father had taught him to shoot when he was a kid. On the carney circuit, they had always had a gun in their trailer for protection—a necessary evil, unfortunately. Despite his reticence, however, Jane was an excellent shot. He held out a steady hand for the weapon.

"Yeah," he said, and then the cold metal was in his hand.

"Be careful; the safety's off."

"Not much good with it on."

She nodded in silent agreement. "You should have everything you need here—toothbrush, razor, a change of clothes. The fridge is stocked. If there's something else you want, I'll have Cho bring it with him later."

"Thanks. Good night, Lisbon."

They hadn't moved apart since she'd handed him the gun, and she looked up at him from her much shorter height. She was the kind of woman who at first glance appeared to need protection herself—petite and fey, her skin delicate porcelain. But the guns and the tragic wisdom in her eyes told a different story. She was strong, had seen too many things to be considered in the least bit delicate. In fact, she was so different from the women he had been with in the past that the contrast was jarring. He didn't find that unattractive; on the contrary, it was even more so.

"Good night."

And there it was, the fleeting flicker of feminine appreciation before she turned away and settled on the couch. Jane watched a moment as she used the remote control to click on the small TV and tune in to a twenty-four-hour news channel.

"…Patrick Jane seems to be mysteriously off the grid for now, and his publicist said he could not be reached for further comment. The family of Mr. Jane's murdered assistant, Matthew Denney, gave a statement today, thanking everyone for the outpouring of love and support, and refusing to believe the rumors that Patrick Jane himself was the serial killer, Red John…"

"Damn media," Lisbon muttered, defiantly changing the channel. She felt Jane's eyes still upon her as he stood in the bedroom doorway. "Don't pay any attention to that crap," said Lisbon. Shaken, Jane moved past her and went into the kitchen. She would have thought he'd be used to that kind of thing by now. She could hear him opening and closing the cabinets. After a moment, Lisbon joined him.

"Tell Agent Cho to pick me up some single-malt, will ya?" he said, frustration lacing his voice as he slammed the last cabinet door.

"Let me fix you some tea," she said, going to the cabinet over the sink. "I'm having some. It'll help you relax."

Jane looked skeptical. " _Tea?_ Really?"

"Really," she said, putting on the teakettle.

Lisbon had discovered tea when she was in rehab. When she'd really wanted a drink of whiskey, just the act of preparing the tea gave her hands something to do, and the brew itself would calm and comfort her. In those first days of her recovery, she probably drank a gallon of the stuff a day. But she wasn't ready to tell Jane something so personal. Instead, she set a variety box of teas before him on the counter, beside his discarded gun.

"Choose your poison," she said.

Jane flipped through the small packets like a Rolodex, alternately frowning or cringing at the names he saw.

"Red zinger? Hibiscus? Wuyi Oolong? African Rooibos? These sound like tropical diseases," he mused.

Once again, Jane caught sight of the illusive hint of her dimples. He felt strangely triumphant at the sight.

"They're all very good," she said, turning back toward the nearest drawer for a pair of spoons. She seemed embarrassed at her own amusement, and Jane resolved to see her smile full on, and maybe—heaven forbid—get her to laugh.

He came across chamomile, which was the only name he recognized, and he had a vague memory of his mother drinking it when he was a child. He removed the teabag from its wrapper and dropped it into the blue teacup she set before him.

"Coward," she muttered with a smirk. Not quite a smile, but he would take it.

They stood for a few more moments in the kitchen, the old saying about a watched pot holding true. Lisbon stared off into space, lost in her own thoughts, while he used that time to do what he did best—observe. He was struck by Lisbon's understated beauty, and he knew himself well enough to know he would have overlooked such a woman as too plain had they been at a party or club. He tended to go for buxom blondes or mysterious brunettes with an air of sophisticated ennui about them. But something about this small woman with the large eyes fascinated him.

She was wounded, just as he was, though her wounds had had much more time to scar over and become a deeper part of her. She wore them like old war metals, and he found himself admiring her stoicism. He wondered if he would share her battle weary expression one day, if his face would hold similar lines of tension around the eyes and forehead. If he would also find it too painful to smile.

The whistling kettle moved Lisbon to action, and she poured steaming water into each cup. She had selected Hibiscus, and she dunked her teabag efficiently. Jane followed suit, and after he had let it steep a minute, took a tentative sip. He made a face.

"Needs milk," he told her, going for the refrigerator.

"In chamomile?" she said. It was her turn to cringe.

"Milk helps you sleep too, right? I'm going to need all the help I can get." In truth, he was afraid to close his eyes this night.

She shrugged. "Suit yourself."

He poured the milk and tried the new concoction. "Much better."

He followed her to the living room, and they sat on either end of the couch. Neither of them spoke, and the silence between them wasn't uncomfortable. Despite his skepticism, the tea was actually pleasant, and the soothing herbal infusion began to have the desired effect. The last thing he remembered was leaning his head back against the couch, his cup resting on his chest, his eyes drifting shut for just a moment…

 _Jane held Lisbon's gun, pointing it into the shadows of his own living room. The copper scent of blood was strong in the room. He looked down and was horrified to find he was ankle deep in a thick warm pool of bright red. He waded through it, wondering how so much blood could have come from his dead friend. He felt the sorrow of that fleeting thought, but then his fear took over, and he spun toward the staircase as a sound came from above._

 _He was terrified of what he might find, but he couldn't stop himself from climbing the stairs, from grasping the doorknob at the end of the landing. His other hand tightened around the gun, and he felt an overwhelming sense of impending doom. He pushed open the door to see a ghastly face on the white wall, dripping with Matt's blood. He heard the swish of a knife being thrown through the air, felt the blade drive painfully deep into his chest, the impact of it pushing him backwards onto the landing. He got off a shot, but it ricocheted wildly into the bedroom, and then he felt himself falling backward into space…_

"Jane," said Lisbon, trying to still his thrashing arm.

He woke with his hand on his heart, his breathing harsh and ragged in the stillness of the old church. Still half asleep, he grabbed Lisbon's hand, needing desperately to hold onto something before he hit the floor at the bottom of those stairs.

"Shh…" she said gently, as if to a child. "You're having a nightmare." His hand in hers was painful, but she squeezed back as hard as she could, hoping to jar him back to reality.

"Shhh," she said again, more forcefully this time. "Wake up, Patrick."

It was his first name that did it, and he opened his eyes to peer blearily at her. Her face was calm, her cool hand soothing on his fevered brow as he brushed back his damp hair. He realized he was lying on the couch, his head resting on its padded arm, a throw blanket covering him from the chest down. He realized Lisbon must have helped him lie down on this couch, had likely taken the half-empty teacup out of his hands while he slept. He could remember none of it.

Lisbon had watched him struggle in his dream, debating whether it was her business to wake him. But then he had called out in his sleep and she couldn't bear to see him suffering. She knew what it was like, the nightmares. More like night terrors, they seemed so real it took several minutes to get her bearings when she awoke, to recognize that she had only been dreaming. They'd been a common occurrence for her two years before, and still woke her occasionally, her body drenched in cold sweat.

Lisbon had comforted her little brothers once upon a time when they had awakened, terrified in the night from unseen monsters that haunted them. But _their_ monster—hers and Jane's—was all too real. She told herself it was a sisterly instinct that had her moving from the easy chair in the corner, kneeling on the floor beside her anguished client.

"I'm sorry," he was saying, though one of his well-manicured hands still clutched his chest, the other, her small hand. "I was dreaming."

"Yes," she said, not bothering to point out his understatement.

He looked about his surroundings, the lack of windows allowing no clue of the time.

"It's six a.m.," she told him, as if reading his thoughts. "You should go to the bedroom, try to get some more sleep. Cho will be here in a couple of hours."

"No," he said, still disoriented. He swung his feet over the side of the couch, but he didn't let go of her hand. "I don't think I could go back to sleep," he said with a shudder. She knew what that was like, too.

It was Lisbon who gave his hand a squeeze to draw his attention to the fact that he still held hers. He glanced at their laced fingers sheepishly, and abruptly let her go. Lisbon rose to her feet. She made no comment about the dampness of his t-shirt, or the paleness of his skin. One look in her eyes and he knew she understood. He took a deep, shaky breath, willing himself to relax.

"Would you like some breakfast?" she asked.

"Sure," he said, though he had no appetite. Then: "You have any eggs?"

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Agent Cho arrived and Jane felt a little better, having showered and changed into a clean t-shirt he found hanging in the closet of his temporary quarters. It was of the plain white variety, but at least it was one-hundred percent cotton. Beneath his borrowed jeans he wore a new pair of boxer shorts from a package he'd found in a bureau drawer. His ass hadn't seen Fruit-of-the-Loom since he was a teenager, but he figured a little humility wouldn't hurt him at this point.

He shook hands with the man he had only met on the phone, feeling oddly comforted by the somber face and firm handshake, the unshakeable air of calm.

"You sure you want to do this?" asked Cho, his stiff pose making a mockery of the easy chair. "We can't guarantee your safety. If you want to lay low until we capture Red John ourselves—"

"And live my life like a prisoner? No thanks. And, no offense, you guys have been after this man for-how many years? I'm of the mind that something radically different needs to happen to shake things up, take this bastard off guard for a change."

Cho and Lisbon exchanged meaningful glances, then nodded as one at Jane. Nothing like the desire for vengeance to make a man willing to risk life and limb.

"Everything _I_ do has to be unofficial," said Cho. "I'm not even supposed to be within ten feet of this investigation. Lisbon neither. But she told me what you'd told Bosco, and things are making a little more sense to me now. It also explains a secondary reason why Red John is out to get you. He must have been watching you after he murdered Bosco and the, uh, the others, waiting to see if you'd press the issue of his possible identity. You haven't, so up until your statements on your show the other day, he's left you alone."

Jane grimaced, accepting his part in Red John's reappearance. Even more reason to do whatever he could to stop him from killing again.

"What we need to do is plant a controlled leak of your location," added Lisbon. "It has to look legitimate enough that Red John doesn't question it, has to come to him through the right channels. Then, we wait."

"Any ideas on how to do that?" asked Jane.

Cho nodded. "Several. And they could all either get me fired, Lisbon arrested, or all of us killed. You still in?"

Jane's eyes fell on Lisbon, and he could read the earnestness there, a desire so strong to get the serial killer that it scared him a little. He thought it probably scared her too. Well, he might be new to this game, but he was more than willing to play.

"Yes," said Jane. "I'm still in. And I have an idea or two I'd like to contribute."

"Okay," said Cho, but Jane could tell, even by the agent's blank expression, that he was just humoring him. Cho shot a glance at Lisbon.

There was that unspoken exchange between the former coworkers again. They didn't know him, didn't trust him, doubted his abilities. Well, they only knew the persona he'd created on air the past ten years, the celebrity psychic who wore expensive suits. They had no idea who he was and where he had come from. Few people really did.

Matt had known.

The thought of his murdered friend confirmed his resolve. Jane used to be dangerous himself; his fame, his enjoyment of the sweet life had made him forget.

"There was this time in Stockton," Jane began conversationally. "A fellow conman was trying to cut in on my action, but I put a stop to that very quickly." His expression turned ruthless, a far cry from the sparkling smile that lit up the small screen. "After I was through with him, no one ever heard from him again…"

 **Chapter 4**

"Why not San Francisco?" Jane asked Cho.

Lisbon frowned, countering: " _Why_ San Francisco?"

Cho merely sat in his chair, face a blank mask.

"Bosco's secretary was transferred to your CBI offices there, right?"

Cho turned to look at Lisbon. "What does Rebecca Anderson have to do with this?"

Jane answered for her. "I don't know—maybe nothing. Just a feeling."

"You're not a psychic," Cho stated flatly.

"No. But something in your story about that day you lost your colleagues—if it _was_ an inside job, who better to have orchestrated the whole thing than Agent Bosco's secretary?"

"I interviewed her—" began Cho.

"But you didn't eliminate her completely, did you? There was something about her, right? Something that stuck in your craw, something you've never put a voice to…"

Cho couldn't deny it.

"She was a very good liar then," said Lisbon. "If she was working with Red John, she fooled us completely. And Cho is the best interrogator I've ever seen."

"What did you think, Agent Cho?" asked Jane, his eyes gleaming. "What was it that didn't sit right with you? I know there was something…"

For the first time, Cho looked uncertain. Memories of that day, of trying to tamp down his roiling emotions while he investigated his best friend's murder, flooded painfully into his mind.

"She was hiding something," admitted Cho. "And I couldn't get it out of her. I thought it was because I was so—" he struggled silently for the word—" _invested_ in the case that I wasn't thinking clearly enough to see it."

"Cho," said Lisbon softly. She could blame herself for this—she'd been the leader of the unit—but Cho had done nothing wrong except be held up in traffic.

"It's okay," Cho said. "He's right. There was something off about her. I should have been more persistent."

"Now's your chance then, "said Jane. "Move my safe house there. Plant the information about my hideout to your San Francisco office-a heads' up out of professional courtesy."

Jane could almost hear the proverbial crickets as the pair before him stared at him, silently evaluating.

"Look," he said, trying a slightly different tack. He leaned in closer, sitting on the edge of the couch. "You have to choose the place with the most likely leak. Do either of you have a better idea?"

Neither of them immediately replied.

Jane was beginning to become a little irked at the looks that passed between Cho and Lisbon, but he supposed he didn't blame them for questioning him. He was an admitted fraud after all, but he'd wanted them to trust him, and he didn't have the luxury of time to prove himself. So he'd invented an origin tale of sorts, an embellishment of the truth that had made him seem stronger, edgier, willing to do what it took to get his revenge. So what if the story was actually about an old conman friend of his? Lying came very easily to Jane, especially when that's what it took to get what he wanted. And he wanted Red John dead, no matter the cost.

In the end, it was Lisbon who broke the charged silence.

"If we try San Francisco, this may be our only shot. If Red John sees we tried to trick him and fail, there could be dangerous consequences that none of us could foresee," she said ominously. "Cho, what were your other ideas?"

His brow furrowed. He had to admit that the fake psychic had made a very compelling argument, especially when he'd brought up Rebecca Anderson. Bosco's secretary had been a question mark that Cho had long buried, probably because it had been too painful to consider that he had screwed up that interrogation two years ago. Now that someone else had voiced similar doubts, Cho knew he wouldn't be able to rest until they had at least looked into it.

"I think this idea is worth pursuing," Cho said simply.

He met Lisbon's eyes directly, and after a moment, she nodded. Cho felt the weight of his former boss's trust, and he silently prayed he wasn't making a deadly mistake. Cho ignored Jane's slight smile of satisfaction the moment the conman realized he had won.

"Okay, then," said Lisbon, slapping her thighs with finality. She rose purposefully from the couch. "Let me make a call. I know of a place we might be able to use. Unless you have an idea, Cho?"

"Well, while you two are working that out," said Jane, "I'll get my hat."

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Thirty minutes later, Cho had left for work at the CBI office, and Lisbon and Jane left the old church to head for San Francisco. Jane watched closely as she entered the code again to lock the security system, looking quickly away when she glanced at him. He stored the code safely in his memory palace. Cho would call his contact in the San Francisco office, just in case they needed backup, he would tell them.

Lisbon didn't like travelling in the light of day, but time was of the essence, and she comforted herself with the fact that Jane was wearing his disguise. Unfortunately, the wig looked obviously fake up close, so Jane would have to keep his distance from the rest of humanity, though he didn't complain when he complied with the necessity of keeping the scratchy cap on all the time. It wouldn't do for someone to recognize him and announce his location to the world, endangering their mission.

"Tell me about my new digs," said Jane conversationally.

Lisbon stared straight ahead, seeming to focus on morning traffic, though Jane could tell she was only deep in thought—confirmed when she didn't respond right away.

"Huh? Oh. It's the second home of a friend of mine," she told him.

"Second home? So this friend must be very wealthy."

"Yes." She didn't feel the need to mention the other six homes (that she knew of) scattered in other great cities across the world.

She wasn't being very forthcoming, but Jane was determined to get her to open up, to relax a bit, in spite of their situation.

"A boyfriend?"

She turned her head toward him in startle. "What? No. Of course not." A week-long affair five years ago and a continuing friendship didn't count as a boyfriend, did it?

" _Of course not_?" he repeated, gently mocking her. "Why shouldn't I assume you would have a boyfriend, Lisbon?"

He was pleased to see he'd flustered her, but at least she was focusing on him again. Childish, he knew, but Jane found he liked being the center of her attention. He thought of earlier that morning, when she'd held his hand after his nightmare, and a small thrill raced up his spine.

"Because I don't have time for boyfriends," she replied, surprising herself with the admission. "Not that it's any of your business," she amended quickly.

Jane didn't hide his smile, ignoring her censure to take up her first contention.

"You should make the time, Lisbon. Everyone needs a bit of love and affection in this cold, cruel world." And they both knew exactly how cold and cruel life could be.

Lisbon didn't know why his words made her feel so defensive, but she did. She heard herself making excuses in spite of herself. "There are more important things in life than personal relationships, Jane."

He couldn't very well argue with that—his priority most of his life had been making money.

"True," he conceded, "but it's at least in the top five. If by _personal relationships_ you mean a gratifying roll in the hay."

She blushed, and he was delighted.

"That's not what I—never mind. This conversation is highly inappropriate." She was having a lot of those conversations with this man.

She gripped the steering wheel and stared resolutely ahead once more.

"Still," he continued, undaunted. "Sex can be a great stress reliever. It can clear the mind, release endorphins to help uh, dull the pain." He hadn't intended to sound so wistful at the end of his little speech.

Perceptive Lisbon caught his change in mood immediately. Her eyes left the road to look at him.

 _The pain of what?_ She wondered to herself.

From what she'd heard of Patrick Jane, he was never lacking in female companionship. He was rich and famous, a self-made man. Were there actually hidden depths to this con man? She mentally shook her head. It was none of her business.

"But you don't have to worry about me, Lisbon," said Jane, covering his momentary pensiveness by more of his compelling flirtation. "For the first time in years, sex is the very last thing on my mind."

"You could have fooled me," she muttered.

Jane pretended he hadn't heard, but he looked out his window and grinned.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Lisbon drove into the prestigious Marina District, redolent of new money and what used to be called yuppies. Many of the houses had been constructed in recent years, though they were made to look like the classic Victorian homes on other, more historic neighborhoods.

"Nice," commented Jane as Lisbon pulled into the driveway of a three-story structure. At the end of the street, they had passed the classical Greek rotunda of the Palace of Fine Arts. Lisbon cut the engine and commented that she would put the rental car in the garage later. If someone was watching them, she wanted them to get a good long look before she hid the car.

The plan, of course was to lure Red John, and by now Cho had planted the information of their whereabouts. Still, it went against Lisbon's every instinct—she was used to protecting and hiding people, not offering them up as bait.

"Let's get you inside," she said. "You can take off your wig."

"Yes ma'am," he said, complying, then sighing with relief as he ruffled his hair. She watched, fascinated, as his deft fingers sifted through the golden curls. She swallowed and got out of the car, heart racing a bit, her cheeks warm.

Lisbon entered the code her friend had given her on the keypad by yet another door. She turned the knob, at the same time reaching inside her jacket for the gun in her shoulder holster.

"Wait," she whispered, when they booth stood in the foyer. She did a quick room-by-room sweep, climbing the stairs to the third level, then back down to the first. She joined Jane again where she'd left him on the second floor.

"All clear?" he asked, raising an eyebrow. He had to admit that it was pretty damn sexy, watching the former cop at work. The way she held onto her Glock with such confidence and power left him oddly aroused.

She holstered her weapon. "Make yourself at home," she told him, oblivious to the effect she'd had on him. She double-checked the lock on the door, but this time, she didn't engage the home security system. They were locked in, but with no alarms, it was like presenting the serial killer with a nice, big welcome mat.

Jane surveyed his immediate surroundings, finding his new safe house to be much more to his taste than the Spartan surroundings of the old church apartment. A white baby grand piano was the focal point of the living area, lit by the morning light from the curtainless bay window. He moved closer to check out the view. In the distance, he could just make out the Golden Gate Bridge, its familiar orange spires still partly concealed by slowly dissipating fog.

The rest of the house was furnished expensively, and mostly in stark, modern white.

"Do you play?" Lisbon asked from behind him. He'd absently touched a few keys on the piano.

"Oh, uh, no. Well, a little. My mother was very proficient, but a piano was difficult to fit into an Airstream," he finished with bittersweet irony.

She didn't ask any more questions, and Jane didn't volunteer.

Lisbon moved closer to the window to admire the view, and he silently inhaled her scent. She wore no cologne that he could detect, and he wondered how she could smell so clean and fresh after a mostly sleepless night. Her hair was smooth and shone slightly auburn in the weak sunlight from the window. She must have felt his gaze upon her, for she turned suddenly to look at him, her sage green eyes widening at the unmistakable admiration she saw there.

She looked hastily away.

"I'll see what there is to eat in the kitchen for lunch later," she said quickly. "It's usually kept well stocked by the maid, in case Wa— _my friend_ has to come suddenly for business. I believe there is a library upstairs if you need something to do…"

Jane made a noncommittal hum, still a little shaken by his sudden attraction to his new bodyguard. He wandered up the stairs to the third floor, peaking in the master bedroom. The king-size platform bed was covered in white mink, a contrasting black rug of the same hapless animals on the hardwood floor beside it. The walls held original paintings by modern artists, and the view there was even more amazing than downstairs. The bare window beautifully framed the distant marina and the iconic bridge. Jane whistled under his breath.

He bypassed the master bathroom and its sunken tub built for five, in search of the library Lisbon had suggested. Instead of the white of the other rooms, it was furnished with black leather chairs and ottomans built for a reader's comfort. The walls on all sides contained shelves of books, running the gamut of the classics to current bestsellers and business tomes. There was a cocktail cart (well-stocked), and the room smelled faintly of expensive cigar smoke. Smiling to himself, Jane chose Machiavelli's _The Prince,_ and settled happily into soft leather.

He reached up to turn on the reading light. It was then that he noticed the framed picture on the lamp table. It was of Lisbon and a man on a yacht, Lisbon holding up an extremely small fish while both of them laughed into the camera. It was jarring to see Lisbon so happy and carefree, her dimples seeming to wink at him. He noted the man's arm about her waist and frowned. Then he realized whom it was that had made Lisbon so happy.

He tossed down his book and rose, taking the photo with him. He found Lisbon in the kitchen, preparing tea.

"This is Walter Mashburn's house," he said, almost accusingly.

She turned to see him holding the familiar picture, her eyes lighting briefly in remembrance of that wonderful day five years ago.

"Yes," she said. She'd forgotten the picture was there. So much for keeping the owner's identity a secret.

Jane had met the billionaire once in LA at a party. He was a notorious playboy, a collector of expensive cars, and Jane had enjoyed chatting with the man immensely. They'd had an odd connection—both of them self-made men with similar life philosophies and wry senses of humor. He'd liked him. It was disconcerting to think that Lisbon had known this man so well.

"You're obviously lovers," he said. "No man would give a woman his alarm code otherwise. That's the equivalent of a diamond ring in some circles."

He was surprised she didn't deny it. "We were together—once. Now, we're just good friends."

Mashburn had been the first one to tell her she'd needed help two years before, had paid for her expensive rehab facility after she'd finally realized it herself, had invested in her new private security company when she'd sobered up. She owed him her life.

Jane felt at a loss. Perhaps it was the recent shock of seeing his own friend dead that had caused him to misread her so totally. Before her colleagues had been murdered, Teresa Lisbon had led a much more interesting life than he'd given her credit for. She hadn't always been the staid, serious woman he saw today, evident by that picture. It was amazing to him to discover how deeply such tragedy could change a person, could make them into someone so radically different than who they had been before. So different, in fact, that his ability to read her had been thrown off completely. While it was still early days beyond his own personal tragedy, Jane wondered how Matt's death might change him too.

He held up the photograph again. "You seemed very happy with him," he said softly, sincerely.

Her expression turned wistful. "That was a good day."

She turned back to her now boiling water, and that, Jane knew instinctively, was the end of that conversation.

"Would you like some tea?" she asked, her back still to him.

"Please," he said politely, and he stood, watching her thoughtfully as she got down another teacup.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxx

"You know, Red John's _M.O_. isn't to attack during the day," said Jane, setting down his empty teacup on the white leather topped coffee table. "You could take a nap; you must be exhausted."

She considered his suggestion, and to his surprise, she nodded. "I think I will. But you wake me up the moment something seems off to you. Anything—don't hesitate, I mean it. And don't let me sleep more than two hours. I'll set my phone alarm—"

"Teresa," he said, testing her first name on his tongue. He seemed to say every letter of the word, extending it out until it almost had a Spanish lilt to it. It made her tremble a bit inside. "You should sleep as long as you can. I'll wake you if something is amiss, I promise. And there's a big screen TV to watch and roomful of books-I'll be perfectly content."

She looked skeptical, but she knew she should catch some shuteye while she could. It wouldn't do to be less than one-hundred percent if Red John should come that night. Cho would drive there from Sacramento after work later. It was Friday, so unless he was working a case, he would stay the entire weekend to provide backup.

"Okay," she relented.

"Sleep well," said Jane, watching her walk with easy familiarity to a guest bedroom down the hall.

Xxxxxxxxxxxx

When he was certain she was asleep, Jane snuck into her room with well-practiced stealth, stealing her phone to shut off her alarm. She'd be mad, but she needed her rest. He hated how dark the circles were beneath her eyes, how she seemed too tired to muster a smile. He stood a moment in the dim light of the room, watching her breasts rise and fall beneath the throw blanket she'd taken from the end of the bed. Her Glock rested on the nightstand beside her phone and car keys, and she'd lined up her low-heeled boots neatly beneath a chair. She'd draped her blazer jacket over the back of it.

This room was decorated in muted shades of gray and pale lavender, and the cool colors suited her. He'd love to see her in purple, or perhaps any jewel tone, so long as it wasn't the harsh black that she wore now.

She shifted in her sleep and her mouth opened a little, her breathing deepening as she slipped into REM sleep. _Good_ , he thought, tenderness softening his eyes as he looked at her. _She needs this_. He found that his fingers itched to touch her, to soothe away the fine lines on her brow, prominent even in sleep. But he resisted, and backed dutifully away, taking her phone with him.

Just outside her door, it buzzed in his hand. Cho's smiling face appeared on the screen, a photo also taken long ago. Jane hadn't realized the man had dimples.

Jane walked into the kitchen, hoping she wouldn't awaken as he spoke.

"Lisbon's phone," he answered.

"Jane?"

"Yeah. She's taking a much-needed nap. May I take a message?"

Cho was quiet for a moment, like a robot processing new information, thought Jane in amusement.

"Just checking in," Cho said finally. "Tell her I'll be over later this evening as planned. Depending on Friday night traffic, I should be there by eight."

"Okay. Will do."

"Everything all right there?"

"Yeah. No sign of him. I take it you planted the information?"

"Yes. Interesting to find that my contact there has a new secretary. I recognized Rebecca Anderson's voice when she patched me through to him."

"And you gave her your name?"

"Yeah."

"How did she sound to you?"

"Surprised," Cho replied. "But she didn't acknowledge that she knew me. And I could have sworn that she stayed on the line even after I was put through to her boss."

"Hmm," said Jane. Both of them realized the significance of that.

"Maybe I should come early," said Cho, feeling the first twinge of trepidation regarding their plan.

"I don't see the need," said Jane, and he repeated his hunch that Red John would attack at night, under cover of darkness, especially in such a populated area.

"Okay," Cho relented. Jane felt relieved at the new tone of trust he heard in the agent's voice. "I'll see you this evening. Call if you need anything."

Their call disconnected, Jane set down Lisbon's phone on the counter, resisting the temptation to snoop through her contact list and old text messages. It was an honorable decision that he might not have made three days ago. He wasn't used to delaying any sort of gratification, even curiosity. Perhaps he was seeing the first changes in himself since Matt had died.

He couldn't decide if this was a blessing or a curse.

Xxxxxxxxxxxx

After four hours, Jane found that he was starving, so he did what he hadn't done in years—he went to the kitchen to cook a meal. He knew how, having done the cooking as a kid on the carnival circuit with his father. When his mother died, it was either learn or starve, since his dad was of no use around a stove, and Jane wasn't a huge fan of boxed macaroni and cheese or TV dinners. Since he'd become rich and famous, he'd hired maids and personal chefs to do his bidding, only occasionally making his own breakfast eggs on the help's day off.

Jane was pleased to find all the ingredients for a lemony chicken picatta, down to the capers and white wine, and as he began to cook, he found the simple actions therapeutic. He wondered why he had ever quit. He became completely absorbed in his task, his only extraneous thought being a growing anticipation for the meal, and how much he hoped Teresa Lisbon would enjoy it. When he put the pasta on to boil, he went to her room to wake her.

He grabbed her phone on the way, planning to return it to her table, Lisbon none the wiser. With the sun directly overhead, the room was considerably darker, and he walked softly to her bed. Her breathing was still deep and steady, and he was reluctant to wake her up, but his excitement at sharing his meal with her had him reaching gently to shake her small shoulder.

"Lis—" he began, but before he could finish the second syllable, she had jerked his arm, and he stumbled onto the bed. Before he could react, she pinned him beneath her lithe body, her strong little hands holding his wrists over his head with one hand, her bottom resting on his crotch. Her movements to subdue him made him moan in spite of himself, but then he froze as the cold metal of her Glock pressed hard into his temple.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" Lisbon growled.

 **Chapter 5**

Though Jane's heart was pounding for a number of reasons, he forced himself to take a breath and speak calmly.

"Lisbon, It's me, Patrick Ja—"

"I know who you are, you idiot," she said, and he felt the pressure of her weapon at his head abruptly disappear. "You should know better than to sneak up on a cop."

He felt it wise not to point out that she was no longer a cop, but then she set the Glock carefully on the nightstand once more. Fear of imminent death assuaged, he took advantage of her momentary distraction to grab her arms, rolling her expertly to her back, his heavier frame covering hers and effectively pinning her to the bed beneath him. His hands held her wrists above her head in a mockery of his own recent position, and, painfully aware of the vulnerability of his groin, he moved out of the way of her struggling legs.

"Now," he began quietly, dangerously, his face hovering just above hers. " _You_ should know better than to invite a man into your bed unless you really mean it."

His breath was hot and sweet against her cheek, and she shivered. He was intimately close and his cologne smelled divine, distracting Lisbon from the beating she should be giving him.

Her soft breasts were rising and falling rapidly against his firm chest, and Jane had no doubt she could feel his other firmness rising against her stomach. She had stopped struggling, though Jane knew instinctively she had the power to overcome him and hurt him badly if she chose. He wondered vaguely why she didn't. Instead, she met his eyes, hers sparkling green fire in the light from the doorway.

"Get the hell off me," she said, from between clenched teeth.

He stared at her, the charged sensuality of the moment compelling him to lean closer, to inhale her scent with closed eyes. He could feel her pulse beating rapidly where he held her wrists. He could have her now, if he wanted, he realized. And she would let him. A few deep kisses, a few expert caresses, and she would succumb just as easily as had every other woman he'd ever desired. He could have her now, but she would hate him for it later.

Jane rolled off her and lay on his back, looking blindly up at the ceiling, willing his body to relax. His eyes drifted closed.

Released from the cage of his warm body, Lisbon abruptly rose from the bed and grabbed her phone.

"Shit! My alarm didn't go off!"

Jane hid his grin.

"Why didn't you wake me up?"

He shrugged. "You needed your rest."

She suddenly sniffed, her gaze turning toward the door. "Is something burning?" she asked in alarm.

Jane's eyes flew open. "The pasta!"

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Nothing had burned. In fact, the meal was perfect, and Lisbon reluctantly enjoyed it, despite her annoyance with the chef. She ungracefully refrained from complimenting him, secretly pleased when his expectant expression turned to a frown. But he wouldn't beg for her praise.

 _So_ , she thought morosely, _we are both equally stubborn. That doesn't bode well for—well, for anything._

The debacle in the bedroom had left her seething with both anger and arousal, and she avoided his eyes as she took their dishes to the sink. She should have kicked his ass, or at the very least made it questionable whether he'd ever bear children. Why hadn't she?

 _Because he's a client,_ she told herself. _And I need him to get Red John._

Satisfied with that reminder, she began rinsing and loading things into the dishwasher, not commenting when he joined her and began clearing away the mess he'd made when he'd cooked the best meal she'd had in weeks.

They worked side-by-side in the kitchen, and she tensed when they accidentally touched a time or two near the dishwasher. He definitely picked up on it, and his amusement at her reaction made her even angrier.

Jane noticed her pouring her entire untouched glass of wine down the sink.

"You don't drink," he said, his smooth voice startling her in the silence. His eyes narrowed on her. Why hadn't he seen this before? The upheaval of the last two days really had affected his perceptions. "You're an alcoholic," he stated.

"Recovering," she replied simply, but with meaningful finality. Jane wasn't very good at leaving things alone, however, as she was swiftly beginning to learn. She glanced up at him to find that he was staring at her in that critical, disconcerting way of his. He leaned his back against the counter, arms lightly crossed over his chest in thought.

"You used alcohol to deal with the loss of your team," he said perceptively. "You must have had a parent who drank," he continued. "Your father?"

"Let's keep this professional, Jane," she said tightly. "My personal life is none of your business, and I'd appreciate it if you lay off the psychic act for ten minutes."

He chuckled softly, and for some reason it reminded her of how sexy his voice had sounded so close to her ear earlier.

"Occupational hazard, I'm afraid," he told her, but then his voice grew serious. "But I think I have the right to know if my bodyguard is in danger of falling off the wagon and getting me killed."

Lisbon shut the door of the dishwasher none too gently. She rounded on him, her hands clenched into fists at her side.

"Then by all means fire me, if you have any doubts. Good luck surviving the night with Red John out to get you."

But he seemed unfazed by her threats. He shrugged. "I'm not afraid of Red John. After what he did to Matt, _he_ should be afraid of me."

"Then what the hell are we doing here?" Lisbon said, throwing up her hands. "Use those famed mentalist skills of yours and find him yourself, or, better yet, just go hang out on a street corner and _he'll_ find _you_ soon enough. I'd appreciate not having to put mine and Cho's lives in danger to protect _you_ r ungrateful ass."

Jane's sudden grin made Lisbon feel like she had emotional whiplash. He held up both hands in surrender. "All right, all right. Simmer down, Teresa. As beautiful as you look angry, I'd like to call a truce. I believe you aren't in any immediate danger of going on a bender; I just needed reaffirmation of your commitment to my cause."

She glanced over at the Glock, which had had its own place at the table earlier.

"I'm so committed to your _cause_ , Mr. Jane, that I nearly shot you for it earlier. I will protect you to the best of my ability, but stay out of my way while I'm doing it, will you?"

She moved closer to him, her eyes intense as she bravely brought herself to look up into his face. "And the next time you mess with my phone, I'll feed your fingers to the fishes in the bay."

She tossed the damp sponge she'd been using into the sink, and left him to start the dishwasher. A slow grin spread across his face. 

"I think she's beginning to like me," he said to the empty kitchen.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

When the doorbell rang an hour later, Lisbon motioned Jane to get out of sight.

He looked toward the door, his eyes narrowing. A feeling of dread washed over him, horribly reminiscent of when he'd opened the door to find Matt's body.

"Don't open it," he said quietly. Something in his eyes made her hesitate, but she wasn't quite ready to trust him beyond her own basic instincts. She was the bodyguard here, not the other way around.

"Have your phone ready to call 911," she whispered.

She grabbed her Glock from the table and went to the front door. She peaked through the peephole and saw a tall, mustachioed man wearing a Napa County Sheriff's uniform. He was armed, of course, and she could see his official vehicle parked on the street in front of the house.

This was a quandary. Jane's insight was that Red John had been in law enforcement. Cho had notified the CBI office in San Francisco that Jane would be staying here. How would a county sheriff know Jane's location, unless he too had contacts inside the CBI? What the hell could he want with them?

The doorbell rang again, startling Lisbon out of her racing thoughts. The sheriff punctuated her thoughts with a loud knock.

"Sheriff's Department," he announced through the door. "Police business. Open the door, please."

Lisbon took another peep through the small hole, and when the sheriff leaned his head back a bit, she could see his face more clearly under his wide brimmed hat. She realized with a start that she recognized the man. She squinted at his small metal name badge, confirming it: _Sheriff Thomas McAllister._

It all came back to her now. Years ago, redheaded women were being murdered, and Lisbon and the Serious Crimes Unit had suspected the beginning hallmarks of a serial killer. McAllister had been the local sheriff. It had taken them weeks of investigation, stake-outs of motel rooms, and the loss of six young women before they finally caught the demented couple—restaurateurs with a strange duct tape fetish. McAllister had been very helpful and supportive, though he'd creeped Van Pelt out a bit.

Lisbon's hand stayed tight around her Glock as his knock came again. She could almost feel Jane's eyes on her back from the stairway where he waited, could hear his slight, indrawn breath as she put her hand on the doorknob.

She had to trust her God-given instincts. For one thing, Patrick Jane was just a glorified fortune teller; she was the trained professional. Besides, she'd never known Red John to kill during the day, let alone show up on a victim's front doorstep.

"Sheriff McAllister," she said. "What can I do for you?"

The sheriff was surprised to see her, but he'd recognized her immediately. His mouth beneath his thick, mostly gray mustache gave just a hint of a smirk.

"Agent Lisbon," he said. "It's been a long time. I didn't expect to see you here."

She didn't correct him about her change in title.

"How can I help you, Sheriff?" she asked, her right hand out of sight behind the door.

He looked beyond her shoulder into the living room, his cool blue eyes latching on to Jane. He hadn't hidden like she'd told him. Though she was the one with the gun and expertise, Jane's masculine instinct was still to protect her, especially when he believed she'd made a mistake in opening that door. He moved closer to the foyer.

"I got word from a friend in the CBI that you might need some backup protecting Mr. Jane here."

 _Dammit, Jane,_ she thought, her heart sinking to her stomach. McAllister had seen him.

"Why would they send a sheriff from another county?" she asked suspiciously. "Why not someone from the CBI, or even San Francisco PD?"

"The universe works in mysterious ways, Agent Lisbon," replied Red John, just before he pressed a stun gun beneath her ribs. The house filled with the sound of crackling blue electricity, the smell of burning cloth and singed flesh filling their nostrils.

Lisbon cried out in pain as she tried to fight it, but he increased the pressure and she dropped to her knees in the foyer, the gun slipping involuntarily from her hand. McAllister moved the stun gun and got her again in the shoulder, holding it there much longer than would be necessary to fell an ox. At the same time, Jane sprinted the last few yards to them, but McAllister stepped away from the incapacitated Lisbon and removed the pistol from his holster, pointing it squarely at Jane.

"Ah, ah, ah," he chided. "Stay where you are, or I'll shoot both of you in the head, starting with her." He nodded toward Lisbon. "And that would be a shame. I have other… _plans_ for you, Patrick. The pretty Agent Lisbon is just an added bonus."

Jane, heart pounding, stopped short, his eyes on Lisbon, as she knelt before the killer, her head down, her body twitching and trembling with the aftershock of the millions of volts that had coursed through her system. McAllister holstered the stun gun and brought out his handcuffs, then kicked Lisbon's Glock away, sending it sliding across the hardwood floor, out of reach.

"Cuff her," he instructed Jane.

Jane felt a rage within him, so pure, so intense that he was shaking with it. Everything in him wanted to resist, to do something heroic that would save them both. But he knew taking action in this state of mind could lead to Lisbon's death.

 _Stay calm_ , he said to himself. _Think._

He complied with the sheriff's wishes, squatting down by Lisbon, nearly feeling her pain himself as he pulled her hands gently behind her back. She moaned, and he literally saw red.

"I'm sorry," he said hoarsely, securing the manacles around her delicate wrists.

"I'm okay." He followed her eyes to her discarded Glock, several feet away.

"Don't even think about it," said McAllister, as if reading their thoughts. "She'll be dead before you lay a finger on it. Now get up, both of you."

Lisbon struggled valiantly to get up, but her knees buckled. Jane easily took all of her weight, holding her beneath her armpits to support her.

"Now, this is what's going to happen next," said McAllister. "We're going to walk out of this house to my patrol car, and you two are going to get in the back seat."

"Where are we going?" asked Jane, managing to keep his voice level, almost conversational.

Red John waggled his eyebrows in amusement. "To my secret underground lair," he replied, his voice mockingly sinister. Then his face became a benign mask. "Now shut up and let's go. And I warn you- not a yell, not a sound of any kind, or you're as dead as disco." He motioned with his gun to the door. "After you."

Lisbon was so shaky on her feet that Jane feared she wouldn't make it under her own steam. And so he picked her up in his arms, holding her like a baby against his chest. Then he stepped out onto the porch with his feather light bundle.

"Jane—" she protested weakly, her cheek against his clean t-shirt.

"Shhh." And she felt the press of his warm lips against the top of her head. She relaxed in his arms.

Red John glanced around the quiet neighborhood, but he didn't protest Jane's actions, instead, he noted Jane's affectionate display with keen interest. He followed his captives down the front steps, then opened the back door of his car so Jane could set Lisbon inside. He buckled her in and she sat back against the seat, her eyes closed, her breath coming in shallow pants.

"Now, turn around," McAllister ordered Jane when his head came out of the car. He reluctantly complied, and soon he felt the hard plastic of a zip tie digging into his wrists. McAllister followed Jane to the other side of the car, where he opened the door and pushed on the top of Jane's blond head to get him inside. McAllister leaned in to buckle Jane's seatbelt, no doubt more for his own security than for Jane's.

Up close, McAllister smelled of pine and earth, and Jane wondered if he hadn't been exaggerating about his hideout being underground somewhere. Jane felt sick to his stomach.

"All nice and snug," said McAllister with a grin and a twinkle in his eye.

"This is between you and me, Thomas," said Jane, his tone reasonable. "Why don't you leave Lisbon here and let's you and I settle this like men?"

McAllister chuckled and leaned his hand against the car's door frame. "But Patrick, Agent Lisbon and I go way back. Actually, come to think of it, she's one cute little loose end I've been meaning to tie up. I'm going to take great pleasure in making her pay for her years of harassment."

Before Jane could reply, McAllister had shut the car door and walked around to the driver's side. Halfway there, he paused, noticing coldly that one of the neighbors had been watching them curiously from their window. McAllister smiled and tipped his hat, and the woman disappeared self-consciously behind her curtains.

Beside Jane, Lisbon was unnaturally still, her head lolling forward on her chest, her silky hair a dark curtain around her face. She'd passed out.

"Lisbon?" he said, nudging her with his leg. She didn't respond, but with relief he saw her breasts gently rising and falling. McAllister must have modified that stun gun somehow to have affected her like this. Jane's jaw tightened further with fury.

When they were on the road, McAllister driving leisurely through San Francisco traffic, Jane engaged his captor once more. He needed to get a better read on the monster, to find out what made him tick, what his weaknesses were.

"You took a big risk, coming here in broad daylight. Not your usual style."

Through the grated metal divider between the back and front seats, McAllister met his eyes in the rearview mirror. His smile was arrogant.

"Just keeping you on your toes, Patrick. And I haven't actually been sheriff for years, so if anyone reports one of my description, there'll be quite a bit of confusion back at the Napa sheriff's office." He chuckled at his own brilliance.

"Why didn't you just kill us at the house?" Jane asked with genuine curiosity.

"I'm afraid all this killing has become rather boring of late. _Ennui_ , I think the French call it. But I've been watching your show religiously, Patrick. You're obviously a fake, but it fascinates me how good at it you are. Almost as good as me."

"I'm flattered."

"Unfortunately, your reading of me was highly inaccurate. I couldn't let you have the last word about me, now could I?"

"So you killed my bodyguard?"

Jane saw the quick flash of anger in Red John's eyes, but it was gone as quickly as it had appeared.

"Even I can make a mistake," said Red John tightly. "Edison failed what—1000 times before he perfected the light bulb?"

"And if at first you don't succeed…"

Pleased to be understood, McAllister smiled. "Precisely. And my failure with you will soon be rectified, I promise you. Plus, with Agent Lisbon an unexpected though pleasurable addition to the mix—I will create my finest masterpiece."

"And how, may I ask, will Lisbon and I be able to help you with that?"

"Oh, you'll have a front row seat, Patrick."

"The suspense is killing me," Jane said, with dry sarcasm.

McAllister became annoyed, his good humor vanishing. Jane smiled to himself. The man didn't like to be belittled. Someone in his past had put him down, had underestimated him, had made him feel small. _His mother, perhaps?_

"It won't be the _suspense_ that kills you, Mr. Jane; remember that. Now pipe down; I need to focus on my driving. Rush hour traffic is killer around here."

And with that, Red John pressed a button and a glass partition rolled up between them. Only then did Jane release the breath he'd been holding. He turned to his silent companion, jostling her knee again with his.

"Teresa?" he whispered. "Please wake up. I need you."

Her low moan gave him a surge of hope, and it was then that Jane wished he'd at least kissed her when he'd had her pinned on her bed earlier. He tilted his head forward until he could just see her soft lips. If it was the last thing he did—and he silently prayed it wouldn't be—he would know what those lips felt like beneath his, would intimately know their taste, would hear her quietly moan for a completely different reason.

He glanced up at Red John. As he turned his head slightly to check a side mirror for traffic, Jane saw that his lips were pursed.

The bastard was whistling.

 **Chapter 6**

They drove for two hours without stopping, and Jane had time to calm down, to clear his mind and focus on what was happening. He took heart in recognizing that Red John could have just murdered him and Lisbon both, leaving Cho to discover the macabre bloody smile on the wall of Walter Mashburn's vacation home. The killer had said that he had _plans_ for them. He and Lisbon were to be his playthings, and Jane tried not to think about what sort of perverted torture they were about to endure. Well, not if he could help it.

Jane could hold his own physically if he had to—wrestling in the dirt with other carnie kids as well as occasional scrapes with local teens who thought they were better than him had toughened him up. He hated guns, but knew how to use one. He knew tricks with knives too, but the sorry fact of the matter was, he had nothing but his wits now to fight against a monster. Behind his back, he worked at releasing himself from the barlocks at his wrists.

As miles of highway passed by, Jane reviewed what he'd deduced about Thomas McAllister.

First, and foremost, the man was arrogant. Jane certainly understood arrogance. When it came to his own cleverness, to the perfection of his act as a psychic, Jane was good and he knew it. He had found that women appreciated a confident man, and arrogance was in part what made him seem so. With McAllister, arrogance had risen to monolithic proportions. For one thing, he walked about in a sheriff's uniform, brazenly drove a police car, and even kidnapped his latest victims in broad daylight, for anyone to observe. He believed he was just too smart to be caught, mainly because he hadn't been so far. This trait alone would be what led to his undoing, Jane had no doubt.

Secondly, Red John was extremely sensitive and defensive about his faults and mistakes. It angered him to be called out on anything. Mommy issues, clearly, and he was probably ridiculed and bullied by his peers as a child, as well. Somehow, Jane needed to find a way to use this insight against him, to manipulate the manipulator. Given their precarious circumstances, Jane realized what a Herculean task this might be. But he had to try.

They passed through the small town of San Angelo, then continued driving east out of town, traveling on a two-lane state highway. Abruptly, McAllister turned off the paved road to one of dirt and sparsely spread gravel. The jarring of the car's shocks jostled Lisbon awake and she emitted a small groan. Jane's heart gave a thump of gratitude.

"Lisbon," he whispered, glancing at the back of Red John's head. He'd been listening to public radio for the past hour, and seemed almost to have forgotten his captives in the back seat behind the glass divider. She lifted her head, smoky green eyes bleary at first, until they focused on Jane. Despite their dire situation, Jane gave her his brightest smile.

"Welcome back," he said.

She became instantly alert, wriggling her hands to find them handcuffed behind her. She flinched at the pain the movements caused her shoulder and side, but she set her jaw and took in her surroundings inside and outside the police car.

"Where are we?" she asked Jane hoarsely. She cleared her throat.

"We are a few miles outside the town of San Angelo," he told her.

Her brows knit. "Has he said where he's taking us?"

"Something about an underground lair," he replied. "Doesn't sound very hospitable, if you ask me."

She ignored his dry humor. "He didn't kill us."

"No."

"I'm surprised."

"Yeah, me too. Pleasantly so."

Although both of them couldn't help thinking about how there were much worse things than death.

"I'm sorry I couldn't do more," said Jane soberly.

"Yeah, well, I shouldn't have opened that goddamn door."

"No," he agreed wistfully, but he left it at that.

Just then, they passed beneath an old archway that stretched high over the road. It's faded letters spelled out: _Sparrow's Peak Farm._ Another mile down the road and they came to a white wooden fence with a long, locked gate. A driveway stretched beyond it to an old farmhouse. McAllister stopped the car and climbed out to open the padlock with a key from his keychain.

"You have anything we could use as a weapon, or do you have a cell phone somewhere? I might be able to get it if I can turn the right way. I left mine by the bed."

"Me too," said Jane, thinking of his own cell phone back at Walter Mashburn's place.

No one would have the slightest idea where to look for them. Not even Cho. They were alone in this. Their eyes met as the enormity of this dawned.

"Look," he began, just before McAllister got in the car to drive through the open gate. When he went out again to close it behind them, he continued at a clipped pace: "It's just the one of him and the two of us. He's capable of making mistakes. We'll know it when we see the next one, and we'll find a way out of this."

She was skeptical but she nodded, summoning her innate strength of will. She was a woman of faith at heart, though that faith had been sorely tested in recent years. She knew faith was all they had right now. Faith, and their combined intelligence. Before she could take it back, she found herself smiling at him, just a little.

Jane felt that smile warm his blood immediately, giving him hope in this incredibly frightening situation. What's more, it was as if a new understanding had passed between them, and they recognized that they must forget their differences and work together to save their lives.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

The farmhouse seemed extremely dilapidated from the outside. The once white paint was gray with age, and part of the roof appeared sunken in. McAllister would take them inside one at a time. Starting with Lisbon.

"Aw, Sleeping Beauty has awakened," said the serial killer upon opening the car's back door. He leaned inside to release her seatbelt. Red John softly kissed her cheek. She recoiled violently, hissing as the sudden movement pulled at her injured side.

"First chance I get, I'm going to kill you, you bastard," said Lisbon evenly, venom clouding her eyes.

McAllister chuckled and glanced at Jane conspiratorially. "I love a spirited woman. They tend to put their whole heart into _everything._ "

Jane's face clearly registered his disgust—but Red John ignored it and latched instead to the tinge of fear he saw beneath the loathing, just before Jane artfully hid it.

He pointed his weapon at Lisbon, gesturing with it for her to get out of the vehicle. He locked the door once more, while Jane watched helplessly, alone, as he marched Lisbon to the house. Jane began working at the plastic bar lock around his wrists once more, ruining his expensive manicure in the process. But he was making no progress, and vainly he wished for his old MacGyver days, when he used to have a means of escape hidden in every pocket or sewn into his clothes. He'd gotten too complacent over the years, too soft in his luxurious lifestyle.

After a few minutes, McAllister returned to escort Jane into the old house.

"While I've got you alone," said Red John, "I just want to reiterate that Miss Lisbon's life is in your hands. I know you think you're the smartest man in the room, but here, that is no longer the case, so any rash thoughts of pulling one over on me to escape will surely lead to her instant demise. Not yours, mind you but _hers_. I know you must be feeling incredibly guilty about your responsibility for your bodyguard's death—"

"And you must be feeling incredibly stupid," countered Jane.

The cold hard barrel of McAllister's gun suddenly pressed into the back of Jane's head. Jane could feel the man's hot breath near his ear as he whispered harshly.

"I could just shoot you now, then go blithely into that house and rape Teresa while I bludgeon her to death with my trusty knife."

Jane's heart jumped in his chest. "But you won't," he said with daring confidence. "That would ruin all your _plans_ , right? And nothing you hate more than being thwarted."

"Aw, but I can be flexible, Patrick. As I'm sure can the lithe Agent Lisbon. So I suggest you kindly shut the fuck up."

Jane smiled to himself. It was a risky proposition, angering a serial killer, but therein lay his weakness; Jane just needed to figure out how to exploit it.

The inside of the farmhouse was in just as much disrepair as the outside, the smell of mildew and dust strong in the air. Red John marched them to the kitchen.

"Lift up the panel in the floor," McAllister ordered, and Jane did so, the smell of fresh earth replacing the aged scents of the house. Wooden steps descended into darkness, but Jane stepped down into the abyss at McAllister's command.

Once standing upon the recently installed industrial tile of the floor, McAllister surprised him by flipping on a light. His so-called underground lair was wired for electricity. They were in a sort of common area, with newly painted drywall covering the rock walls. In one corner lay a stack of lumber—pine, Jane deduced from the smell. Two heavy steel doors lined one wall, each with a small window at eye level. There was a light shining from within each chamber.

"Welcome to my hideaway," Red John was saying. "Pardon the construction—it's still a work in progress. I've tried to make the accommodations here as comfortable as possible. I hadn't intended for Agent Lisbon to join us, so I'm afraid you'll have to double up. But I'm sure you won't mind that, will you?"

"Who's in the other one?" asked Jane suspiciously, ignoring his innuendo.

"Oh, a guest of a friend of mine. You'll meet him later, I'm sure." It wasn't clear whether he meant he'd meet guest or friend.

McAllister took his keys and unlocked Jane's new _accommodations._

Lisbon looked up from her place on a small cot where she sat, still rubbing her wrists from where the handcuffs had dug in. Jane was thankful McAllister had removed them for her. He didn't release Jane, however, just nudged him inside with his gun.

"Make yourselves at home," said Red John brightly. "I have a few chores to see to, so you have time to rest and recover from our trip."

The heavy door shut and locked behind them, and Jane and Lisbon were alone.

Jane turned his back to Lisbon, presenting his bar-locked wrists. "Think you can get me out of these damn things?"

Lisbon looked at Jane's hands, held together by the bar lock, and her eyes couldn't help but rest briefly on the sexy way his behind filled out his jeans. She cleared her throat and forced her attention on his plastic restraint. The little buckle where the strip of plastic locked upon itself was impossible to release once engaged, which was one reason they were so popular with law enforcement.

"He didn't exactly leave me a knife or a pair of scissors handy," she said dryly.

"You could use your teeth," he suggested, only halfway joking, the words sounding unintentionally erotic. Lisbon swallowed and felt her cheeks flush.

Then he felt her small hands against his skin, hers cool with nerves. She manipulated his wrists within their confines, and he gasped in pain as the plastic dug more deeply into his skin.

"If I can just move your hands a little this way…you can slip one out, I think…"

A few seconds later (accompanied by much quiet cursing) Jane was able to extract one hand, though he felt like he might have sprained his wrist in the process.

"Thanks," he said, shaking his hands out gingerly to restore the circulation. "Houdini's career would have been ruined if he'd had to go up against the bar lock."

He evaluated their surroundings, grateful he wasn't prone to claustrophobia. The room still had rock walls, and measured perhaps eight by eight feet. It contained only the cot, a small table with a single chair, and a sink and toilet in the corner, which made Lisbon turn red in the face every time she looked at it.

It was exactly like a prison cell.

Jane went to the door and peaked out the small window. He couldn't see McAllister anywhere, only the dimly lit common area.

Lisbon tried to rise, hissing a bit as her bruised and battered body protested. Jane turned from the door to go to her.

"Hey," he said, pushing on her uninjured shoulder to get her to sit down again. "Relax." Before she could protest, he'd raised her t-shirt at the bottom hem to examine the damage done by Red John's stun gun. The area beneath her ribs was an angry red, a combination of bruising and electrical burn. Jane reached out and gently touched her heated skin, rage filling him once more. He pulled the shirt away from her shoulder and saw similar marks. She met his eyes, touched by the compassion she saw there.

He went to the sink and wet a small towel that hung on a hook, bringing it back to press against her inflamed skin. She caught her breath at the coolness of the water, then held her hand over his gratefully, feeling instant relief.

"I'm going to kill him for this," said Jane under his breath, surprised that his anger over her injury seemed just as profound as when he thought of Matt. She pressed his hand beneath hers lightly in commiseration.

"I had to get stunned in my academy training," she said, "but it's a little different when someone really means business."

Jane willed himself to calm down, the better to think his way out of this, though he had to admit some of his earlier hope had dissipated with the reality of their prison.

"According to McAllister, there's someone in the room next door," said Jane conversationally.

"Who?"

"I don't know, but I had the strange feeling it was a woman. Anyone gone missing that you know of in connection with Red John?"

"It's hard to say. He's never left anyone alive that I know about."

"Could be he covers his tracks well when he abducts someone; doesn't even leave his calling card on the wall." He used blood from his _dead_ victims for that.

"Every year there are many missing persons," Lisbon said sadly. "Any of them could be in Red John's hands."

It remained unspoken that the two of them had just been added to that list. Jane lifted his hand from her side, the intimacy of the moment becoming uncomfortable. He went back to the sink to cool the towel again. This time, he merely handed it to her; she nodded her thanks. Restlessly, Jane went to the wall that divided the two cells.

"Hey!" he yelled suddenly, causing Lisbon to jump in her place on the cot. "Anyone else in here?"

"They might not be able to hear you through the thick rock," Lisbon suggested in annoyance.

He slapped his hand on the wall experimentally. "Hello?"

He was quiet a moment, then he heard the faint sound of metal upon metal. He looked at Lisbon with a triumphant grin.

"Can you talk?" he called again.

"They might be afraid to," Lisbon whispered. "You might be getting them into trouble." Not to mention _us_ , she added to herself.

There came two distinct _clangs._

"Aw," said Jane. "Once for yes, twice for no?"

Lisbon shrugged, then grimaced at her remembered shoulder. She put the cool compress there for a bit.

"What if they're thinking the opposite and they mean _two_ for yes?" Lisbon mused.

Jane frowned.

Then the door to their cell opened abruptly, and Red John stood before them, familiar gun in hand.

"None of that," he warned them, inclining his head toward the neighboring cell. McAllister met Jane's eyes, a wicked gleam in his. "Besides, it's playtime, Patrick."

"What do you mean?" he asked, stalling as his palms grew damp.

"You'll see."

Lisbon's face grew white with fear, and Jane gave her what he hoped was a reassuring smile. He walked resignedly toward the open door.

"Aren't you going to kiss Teresa goodbye?" asked McAllister. "I mean, you never know if this is the last you will ever see of each other."

"We only just met," protested Jane, pulse leaping.

McAllister pointed the gun at Lisbon, his expression turning cold. "Humor me."

Jane went over to the cot, then bent and kissed her fleetingly on the cheek. He vaguely registered that her skin was soft beneath his lips.

"She's not your sister," stated Red John in annoyance, the warning clear in his tone. "Either you do it, or _I_ will."

Jane's earlier vow of tasting her before he died flitted through his mind, and he realized that Red John might be right: he might never get this chance again. He met Lisbon's frightened eyes, large and green in her elfin face. She swallowed hard and nodded her permission.

Then, he lowered his mouth to hers. The instant their lips met he felt a jolt that rivaled any stun gun. His hand came instinctively to her cheek as he tilted his head and deepened the kiss, swiping his tongue briefly over hers. She couldn't help but kiss him back, despite her keen embarrassment and anger at their audience. He pulled away too soon for both of them, but he pressed a last, sweet kiss of farewell on her slightly parted lips.

"Now that's more like it," he heard Red John say, as if from a great distance.

"I'll be back," said Jane calmly. They were both trembling inside, and it was less to do with their circumstances than with the intense connection they had just felt from that incredible kiss. His last thought before he was forced by gunpoint to leave her, was that he was happy at least to see a bit of color in her pale cheeks.

"You're a sick bastard," said Jane as McAllister locked the door behind them. He didn't seem offended.

"My dear Patrick, you ain't seen nothin' yet."

He pressed his gun to Jane's back, pushing him forward toward another tunnel that led deeper into the earth.

 **Chapter 7**

The tunnel opened into a large room, which, unlike the rest of the underground bunker, seemed completely finished. A long ebony table dominated the room, resting upon alternating black and white marble tiles, like a chessboard. The drywall was painted a stark white, and several expensive paintings hung upon the walls. Jane noted at least one he knew had been stolen in recent years. Recessed light emanating from the low ceiling gave the room a soft glow.

The table was set for dinner.

"Sit, please," said Red John politely, though it was definitely an order, given the gun.

Jane sat before a fine china plate filled to the edge with an expertly broiled steak and a salt encrusted baked potato. A salad plate held fresh greens, and a glass of red wine rested to the right of the plate. The napkin beneath the silverware was of fine linen. Across the table, McAllister's place was exactly the same, though the serial killer's steak was swimming in its own blood.

Jane's expression became tinged with barely disguised horror.

McAllister laughed. "Don't worry, not a fava bean in sight, I promise."

Jane didn't laugh.

"We try to be civilized, even in our little hole in the ground," Jane's host continued, sipping his wine. "Dumar brought these back from a quaint little steakhouse in town. Their food really is surprisingly good. Please, eat it while it's hot."

Jane wasn't hungry, but he did what he was told.

"Will Lisbon be fed?" he asked, his mind awhirl with possibilities as he picked up the steak knife. It was heavy and sturdy in his hand.

"Of course. A steak just like ours. Though I took the liberty of cutting _her_ steak for her," he replied with a grin.

McAllister inclined his head toward the lethal looking steak knife. Jane wondered if he had enough time to reach over the table and jab it into Red John's carotid artery before the man got off a shot. The space between them seemed too small to throw it accurately…

"Don't get any heroic ideas, Patrick. Enjoy your steak. Let's get to know each other a little better. I'd like to see the real you—you know, the man behind the stage persona."

"I'm not sure you would like the real me," Jane said ominously.

McAllister dove into the tender beef with gusto. "Don't sell yourself short," he said around his mouthful.

"Are you fattening us up before the kill?" wondered Jane, the meat tasting dry in his mouth.

"I'm insulted, really," Red John protested, though his tone was still pleasant. "You're my invited guests."

" _Invited_ isn't exactly the term I would use." Jane's eyes rested meaningfully on the gun on the table within McAllister's easy reach.

"Pish. Semantics. I told you I have plans for you, and those plans entail building a certain level of trust between us. I realize that might take a while, but soon you will see I'm really a very reasonable, and even generous guy."

Jane raised an eyebrow, then carefully set down his knife.

"Don't tell me. You want me to join the dark side, and together we can rule the galaxy as—"

McAllister's smiled dimmed at his mocking sarcasm. "As I've said, I've been watching your show lately, and I have to say, Patrick, I see a lost soul, someone whom I deeply pity. You know, if you could only find the real you, release yourself from the prison within your mind, you could visualize a new life for yourself. A pure life, a life without artifice, without—"

Jane laughed in disbelief. "A life without artifice? You go by the name, _Red John_. You murder people with box cutters, and you call this _pure?_ "

Red John stood up and plunged the sharp point of his steak knife into the beautiful table. Jane didn't even jump. Jane had made him angry. Red John made mistakes when he was angry. It was a fine line Jane was walking, but he wanted to push McAllister to the very edge, then draw him back as if he were on a short leash. Soon McAllister wouldn't even realize how much control Jane was exerting over him.

At least, that was the hope.

Jane continued passively eating, chewing methodically without really tasting. McAllister seemed to come to his senses and returned slowly to his seat, appearing slightly embarrassed now at his outburst. It annoyed him when he lost control.

 _Good,_ thought Jane.

"I apologize, Patrick. You are certainly correct in pointing out some of the contradictions in my behavior."

Jane's eyebrows shot up, but he didn't comment.

"The people I put down—they are expendable because they have no self-awareness." He leaned forward, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial level. "You know what I ask them before I plunge my knife into their guts?"

Red John's fingers glided almost sensuously up and down the handle of the steak knife, still embedded in the table.

Jane swallowed a bite of potato. "No," he said, trying to keep the disgust out of his voice.

"I ask if they can see beyond this moment, if they can see the light of knowledge from within their mind's eye."

"And?" said Jane tightly, feeling a coldness seep into his spine, radiating out into his hands, into his heart. He imagined Matt, lying there at this psychopath's mercy, being asked this nonsensical question while his life hung in the balance.

Red John shrugged, removing the knife from his expensive table with some effort. He wiped it carefully on his napkin, then employed it once more on his bloody steak.

"They never give the right answer."

"Because there isn't one," Jane surmised.

He was pleased with Jane's insight. "Exactly. If they say yes, I know they are lying. If they say no, then they have no vision, no idea of the inner workings of their own minds, no concept of the knowledge the universe has in store for them."

"So, it's their fault you kill them."

"Not their _fault_ exactly. They are lost forever to the true reality, so I'm doing them a great favor. I am giving them the peace in death that they will never experience in life."

Jane said nothing, though he wanted to proclaim that everything Red John had just said was bullshit. This, he realized, would be pushing the man too far. You didn't insult someone's religion—no matter how crazy or fanatical it sounded. Neither could Jane determine whether or not this was an act. He'd watched McAllister closely as he spoke. There was honest conviction there; he believed in what he was saying wholeheartedly. Sometime in his past, this cultish belief had captured his mind, twisted what on the surface sounded like a peaceful, new-agey religion into a perverted excuse to commit murder.

Jane was saved from further comment by the arrival of a young man dressed in a sheriff's uniform. Beneath his arm he held a laptop computer.

Red John really must have infiltrated law enforcement, thought Jane. The man was stocky but otherwise average in appearance. Brown hair. Brown eyes. Medium height. Clean cut. He seemed completely ordinary, except for the fact that he was an associate of a serial killer, and he looked as though he'd been in a physical altercation—very recently. His nose was red, his nostrils packed with toilet paper to staunch the blood, the skin about his left eye was mottled and beginning to swell, and he walked with a painful limp. "What the hell happened to you?" asked McAllister.

The younger sheriff grinned sheepishly. "That filly was much more difficult to break than the last one," he said, his voice a little breathless.

Jane stiffened, his heart pounding with dread. He grabbed his steak knife and rose to his feet. "What have you done to Lisbon?"

McAllister picked up his gun and trained it on Jane. "Sit down," he said, his voice dangerously low.

Jane sat.

"And the knife please?"

It took everything in Jane not to throw it at the bastard, but he knew if got shot because of it, there would be no one to save Lisbon. He reluctantly slid the knife across the table.

"You didn't injure Agent Lisbon now, did you Dumar?" asked McAllister.

Dumar shook his head. "No, sir. But she certainly is a spirited little thing. I had to slap her once, but I don't think it'll leave a mark."

McAllister nodded. "Good."

Jane felt his face flush hot with anger.

"The little bitch got in a sucker punch though," Dumar continued, touching his cheekbone gingerly, "and kneed me pretty good in the babymakers before I could take her in hand. But in the end, she became docile as a lamb."

McAllister chuckled. "Sounds like a fun time. Sorry I missed it."

"If you hurt her, I'll kill you both with my bare hands," said Jane.

McAllister waved a dismissive hand. "Settle down, Patrick. Miss Lisbon is fine, for now. Show him, Dumar."

Dumar took the laptop and set it on the table before Jane. He opened the computer and immediately the feed from four different cameras quartered the screen. One camera showed the outside of the farmhouse. Another showed the common area near the holding cells. A third showed the interior of what Jane assumed was the cell next to his and Lisbon's. In it, a young girl huddled on her mattress, staring blankly at the rock wall.

The fourth camera's feed made Jane gasp aloud. Lisbon was still in their small prison, only now she was lying on the bed, each wrist and ankle tied to a corresponding corner of the metal frame. Her body was alarmingly still, as if she were deeply asleep or drugged. Her eyes were closed, her dark hair splayed over the pillow. On the floor was the wreckage of the meal Dumar had brought to her.

Lisbon's jeans had been removed, and her t-shirt barely covered her stomach, where, squinting, Jane thought he could see a new mark from a stun gun.

Jane's breathing became audible in the dining room as he stared in fear at the scene before him. _Had Dumar stunned, then raped her?_ He felt sick to his stomach.

"Teresa's continued good health depends entirely on you, Patrick," Red John was saying dispassionately.

Jane looked up dazedly from the computer, willing his breathing to calm.

"What do you mean?" he managed, his voice breaking.

"I've watched your show, as I've said, and I've noticed that you hypnotize people on occasion, to help them remember where they put something, or to remember events more clearly. I heard you even used that skill to help a witness solve a crime for the police, isn't that true?"

"Yes."

"Well, I would like the privilege of hypnotizing _you_."

"Why?"

"Curiosity, I suppose. And, I admit, to test my own skills. I'm pretty good at hypnosis myself. I'd consider it a personal accomplishment to successfully hypnotize a master like you."

Jane was quiet, his eyes falling back to Lisbon in that cell and the perfectly toned muscles of her alabaster legs, along with the mottled marks the sadists had left on her delicate skin.

"You must realize I'm not very suggestible; I'm too aware of the process." He heard himself say, as if from a great distance.

"An even greater challenge," said McAllister almost gleefully. "Then what have you got to lose? Well, except Agent Lisbon's virtue, of course."

His meaning was ominously clear. This snapped Jane to attention, and he pushed his fear and disgust away. He could do nothing for Lisbon now save whatever the hell Red John asked of him. He must survive this ordeal so he could find time to kill the bastards later.

"I'll tell you whatever you want to know. You don't need to hurt her, or to hypnotize me."

Red John smiled gently. "Aw, but this is the fun I was telling you about. Don't worry, Patrick, I won't make you quack like a duck or suddenly cause you to go all _Manchurian Candidate_ or anything. Just a harmless parlor trick, I promise."

Hypnosis wasn't always harmless, as Jane well knew.

"And if it doesn't work on me? Do you punish Lisbon for that? Do you punish me?"

McAllister gave a slight nod to Dumar, who promptly closed the laptop and cleared the table of their dishes, gathering up silverware and piling it on the dishes, his body just touching Jane's.

"Dumar," Red John said in annoyance, as a drop of blood from the young sheriff's nose fell on a white tile. "Clean yourself up. Blood has germs in it, you know."

"Yes, sir," he replied, and Jane could hear the slight tremble of fear there. The young sheriff's ingratiating smile had disappeared. Despite McAllister's outward show of a reasonable, even affable host, Jane couldn't forget that he was sitting across from a psychopathic killer. Dumar scurried away like a frightened mouse, leaving Jane alone with Red John.

"Let's cross those bridges when we come to them, shall we?" said Red John in answer to Jane's questions.

This didn't leave Jane with much of a choice. But he could draw on his skills as a conman, honed to perfection his entire life. He gave a sigh of what he hoped sounded like resignation, as he slipped his purloined fork beneath the table into the waistband of his jeans.

"Fine," Jane said, thinking of Lisbon tied to her bed down the corridor. His jaw tightened. "Let's get this over with."

McAllister's lips formed a small smile of triumph, then his pale blue eyes focused completely on Jane across the ebony table.

"Just relax, Patrick. I'm not going to harm you. Just close your eyes and listen to the sound of my voice. Let is soothe you, wash over you like warm water, all your cares and worries drifting away with the tide."

Jane did as he was bidden, and it was as if he had no will at all to resist, not even halfheartedly. His eyes fluttered closed. He did feel like he had sunk below water, but not with the violent sensation of drowning. It was more like he imagined someone felt when they were freezing to death. His limbs became numb to all sensation, and just as a freezing man will feel on the brink of death, he felt only welcoming warmth as the rest of the world slipped away…

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Cho double-checked the address Lisbon had texted him earlier, the same address he'd given to Rebecca Anderson. It appeared to be the same rental car Lisbon had been driving, parked now in the steep driveway. He pulled in beside it. Yes, this was it. He got out of his CBI issue SUV and walked to the front door of Walter Mashburn's house.

He'd texted and called Lisbon several times throughout the afternoon, and with no reply, he was becoming concerned. By five o'clock he was out the door of the CBI and on his way to San Francisco.

He rang the doorbell. After a full minute, he rang again, then stepped back off the porch to look up at the windows above him. No curtains or blinds rustled, and he had no sense that he was being watched. He didn't hear footsteps or sounds of any kind coming from inside the house.

He tried calling again. From a distance, he heard a phone ringing. He trotted back up the steps and pressed his ear to the door. He glanced down at his phone as the ringing stopped and Lisbon's voicemail picked up. He tried the number again, and found that it had been no coincidence: that was definitely Lisbon's phone ringing somewhere inside the house.

Cho pounded on the door now, a feeling of intense trepidation coursing through his veins. On a whim, he turned the doorknob.

It wasn't locked.

Cho drew out his weapon.

The immaculate house seemed undisturbed inside, though he could still smell that food had been prepared recently. Gun held tightly before him, he called out for Lisbon, then even for Jane. There was no reply, and the house felt empty. He nearly tripped over Lisbon's Glock, the same shining metallic gray as the marble tile of the foyer. He squatted down and lifted it with a pen through the trigger guard. It didn't smell as if it had been discharged lately, but there were scratches on one side of it. It had likely been kicked along the floor, Cho thought.

His desire to protect the crime scene ingrained within him, Cho set Lisbon's gun back down where he had found it. He began moving through the house with long-honed caution and efficiency, searching for his former boss and her psychic charge, room by room, floor by floor. He found two beds that had been slept in, but they were long cold, as were the stove and the leftover food that had been prepared in the kitchen. Lisbon's car keys lay alongside her phone on one of the nightstands. He had seen Jane's phone on another.

"Dammit," he cursed aloud.

Both phones were password protected, so he couldn't access them to see if they'd received any unusual calls or texts.

He returned to the foyer, looking more carefully for clues. He noticed some scuff marks on the marble near the door that might have been made from black soles. Lisbon wore boots with black rubber soles that might leave marks like this. Other than that and the placement of her gun, there was no physical evidence of any kind of struggle that he could discern.

It had been the plan to leave the security system off, and there were no cameras in use anywhere that he could see. Nothing to help him solve this mystery.

He wondered if they might have had to leave the house suddenly, to run away in fear of their lives. Perhaps they would return when they felt the coast was clear. Maybe they needed to find a phone. Cho needed more answers. He would start with the neighbors. If Lisbon and Jane had left in a hurry, or if someone had abducted them, chances were someone had seen something.

If nothing panned out there, his next stop would be Rebecca Anderson.

She and Cho had some unfinished business.

 **A/N: So, this ends what I wrote before. I know many of you have read this before, so I certainly understand if you don't review again. Still, I'd love to hear if you are game for my continuing this story. Hopefully, I can finish this up in a few more chapters. Thanks for reading/revisiting this long lost fic.**


	2. Part II, Chapter 8

A/N: Here begins Part II, picking up right where I left off a year ago. Hope you like it, and thanks for being here.

 **Red Specter, Part II**

 **Chapter 8**

Cho waited in his car outside Rebecca Anderson's home in the modest San Francisco neighborhood. He was about to do something he'd never done before-threaten a suspect. He'd manipulated with words plenty of times in the interrogation room, used force bordering on police brutality when arresting a reluctant perp, but never had he resorted to threats, lies, and intimidation, especially not with a woman. He'd never had to. But this was a matter of life and death. Red John had Lisbon and Jane, had taken them without a trace, and though it was only a hunch, both he and the fake psychic had had the same suspicions regarding Ms. Anderson and this was his only lead.

A smartphone search of the CBI's online database had yielded the secretary's address, along with the names of her next of kin. Facebook had filled in even more details, with which he was hopeful he could bluff his way into her psyche.

He watched from across the street as a pair of headlights made its cautious way down the long avenue, then turned up the steep, narrow driveway of her house. Cho waited until she was inside before he got out of his car and walked across the street to her door. He knocked loudly and quickly, and after a moment, the porch light flicked on.

"Agent Cho," said Rebecca Anderson with a pleasant smile. "It's been too long. How are you?"

His gut tightened when she showed little surprise at seeing him, and his hand rested automatically on his weapon at his hip.

"Fine."

"What brings you to my door in the middle of the night?"

Cho stood outside the screen door, his face impassive as he stared at her. Inside, his mind raced to re-evaluate her, to put his finger on what had troubled him about her two years before.

"There's some new evidence about the Red John case," he told her. "Loose ends from when Bosco and the others were murdered. You mind if I come in so we can talk?"

Any other guilty party might have looked nervous at the prospect of Kimball Cho questioning her in the middle of the night, but Rebecca seemed just as eerily cheerful as ever, her perky demeanor almost jarring. Maybe that was it, thought Cho. No one in law enforcement was ever _that_ happy, given the horrors they faced on a daily basis.

"I was about to make dinner, but I suppose I can spare a few minutes. Please, come in."

"Thanks."

She stepped aside so he could come in, and Cho looked around the small house. There were shelves full of small animal figurines, most of them frogs, and a calico cat meowed for his dinner, almost tripping her as he curled insistently around her legs.

"Just a minute, Rexie…Let me just fill his bowl," she said to Cho. "You're welcome to have a seat in the livingroom."

But Cho gave a noncommittal grunt, following her into the kitchen instead, knowing there were too many kitchen knives there, too great an opportunity for her to retrieve a weapon. He watched as she poured kibble into a bowl marked _Good Kitty,_ cooing to her pet in a way that put Cho's teeth on edge. She led him next into the livingroom, inclining her head toward her cabbage rose-patterned furniture.

Cho settled stiffly onto the couch, and she joined him opposite in a matching wingback chair.

Rebecca was as unfashionably attired as ever, nearly to the point of frumpiness, both in her demeanor as well as in her dowdy dress and suntan pantyhose. She folded her hands primly in her lap and waited patiently for his questions. He decided there was no time to beat about the bush, no time for finessing.

"Where's Red John?" he demanded, pulling out his pistol and pointing it at her.

Her dark eyebrows shot up at the sight of his sidearm, but her benign smile didn't waiver.

"I'm sure I wouldn't know," she said conversationally. "Why would you think I did? He killed my boss, if you recall. Why would I have anything to do with that monster?"

Cho's eyes narrowed. "Because I think you work for him. I think you either arranged for him to kill them, or you did it yourself on his behalf."

She shook her head, her brows knitting in concern. She scooted to the edge of the chair, ignoring the gun and leaning forward with what Cho immediately concluded was feigned compassion.

"I can see you're still upset about their deaths. It's totally understandable. That kind of grief can make people go a little crazy, refuse to let go. I for one still have nightmares about it, and like you, I blame myself. There was so much blood…"

"You're going to take me to Red John. He has two of my other friends, and I'm not going to be too late this time."

Rebecca grinned, then clicked her tongue in chastisement. "Poor, Kimball. You should really get some help. Didn't the CBI-appointed psychologist make some suggestions on how you could cope with your guilt?"

"Stand up," Cho snapped, rising, himself. "You're taking me to them right now."

"No," she protested, sitting back stubbornly in her chair. "I'm not taking you anywhere." She shrugged one shoulder. "You'll just have to shoot me, I guess."

Cho was at her side in an instant, pressing his gun into her temple.

"Get up."

She stubbornly remained seated. But Cho was fully prepared for this.

"You'd better come, or your grandmother will meet with an unfortunate accident at the Shady Haven retirement home."

Rebecca couldn't control the brief flash of panic in her eyes before the mask fell down again. "Ha. No way you'd do such a thing, Agent Cho. You're too much of a boy scout to resort to threatening old ladies."

"I used to be that way, before your real boss killed my friends. But if killing granny isn't enough to make you cooperative," he continued, "what say we move on to your cute little nephew." He held up his cellphone, showing her a picture of a young boy that looked surprisingly like his aunt.

"What? How did you-?"

"Don't fuck with me, Rebecca. I'm so far off the reservation now, I don't give a damn who I hurt to get Lisbon and Jane back. Now stand up and let's go for a ride or—"

"If you kill me, Red John will track you to the ends of the earth, once he kills your friends, that is."

"Not if I find him first. And if I don't cancel the hits I've ordered by a certain time, this time, two people _you_ love will have you to blame for their deaths."

"You're bluffing." But her eyes were for once filled with fear.

He held up his phone again, frozen on the little boy's picture. "You willing to risk it?"

She hesitated a moment, but then she was on her feet, Cho pushing the gun into her back as she walked toward the door.

 **xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx**

When Jane came to himself, he was still sitting at Red John's dining table, though he had the sense that some time had passed. Across from him, Red John was relaxing against the back of his chair, an amused expression upon his face. Jane felt an instant of disoriented panic as he realized that the serial killer had successfully managed to hypnotize him.

"Welcome back, Patrick."

Jane shook his head a little, willing his bleary eyes to focus.

"I have to say," continued McAllister idly, "I'm somewhat disappointed at the ease of your susceptibility. Here I thought that with an expert such as you, I'd have to pull out the big guns and rely on…chemical inducement."

Jane noticed a syringe on the table beside McAllister, and he couldn't help the cold wave of fear that washed over him.

"Did you get what you wanted from me?" Jane managed, willing himself to calm, despite his racing pulse and his intense dread of the man's reply.

McAllister frowned. "Yes, and no. Do you remember any of the questions I asked you?"

Jane experienced brief flashes of hazy memory.

"You asked me about my childhood, about my feelings for my mother."

McAllister grinned. "Yes. I'm happy to report you harbored no romantic notions about the dearly departed Mrs. Charlotte Jane, so Oedipus has no hold on you. Now, your father, on the other hand..." He shook his head and clicked his tongue in mock sympathy. "Lots of repressed rage there, Patrick. You should really get some intense therapy where he is concerned."

"You could have just asked me about my parents," said Jane tightly. "No need to pry it out of my subconscious."

"Aw, but this way, I know I will get the unvarnished truth. And I really do want to get to know the real you. If you haven't guessed, you fascinate me, Patrick, truly. Such a brilliantly complex mind you have."

"If you're through violating my psyche, I'd like to go back to Miss Lisbon now."

McAllister stared at Jane a few quiet moments, considering.

"Okay," he relented. "Dumar!"

The sheriff returned so immediately, he had to have been standing outside the dining room door.

"Escort our guest back to his quarters."

Jane rose on shaky legs, furious with himself for having succumbed to Red John's manipulation. He could only surmise that his shock and fatigue from the last few days had made him unusually weak. What was worse, he had no doubt Red John had asked him more questions than he'd let on, perhaps even planted some dangerous suggestion that he could ignite at some later time.

Dumar pressed his gun to Jane's back, propelling him back to his cell, the scent of peppermint chewing gum surrounding him.

"Tell me, Dumar, what's it like to be Red John's minion?"

Dumar sucked in an angry, offended breath, pressing the weapon more painfully into Jane's flesh.

"Shut up, asshole. We're partners. I don't take orders from nobody."

Jane's eyebrows shot up. They both knew that wasn't true.

"Then why are you chewing nicotine gum like it was candy? McAllister doesn't like you smoking up his little hideout, does he?"

"Shut up," Dumar said again, and his gum smacking grew louder with his agitation.

Wisely, Jane didn't comment further. He felt the comforting, slight weight of the fork he'd stolen in his waistband, and he began to contemplate the best time to use it.

Dumar unlocked the cell and pushed Jane inside, shutting and locking the door behind him. Lisbon still lay prone on the cot, her eyes opening dazedly at the new commotion. She tried to sit up, but cringed in pain at the tightness of the ropes that bound her hands and feet to the bed. Jane's eyes swept over her bare legs in abstract appreciation, though he was actually scanning her for injury. He could still see the burn marks from the taser, but other than that, she seemed not to be drugged, but merely exhausted from her recent fight with Dumar and the residual effects of being violently tased twice.

He felt sick that another person was suffering at the hands of Red John because of him, and this feeling of remorse was one he'd all but forgotten. He hadn't regretted anything in probably twenty years, having developed a coldness toward his marks, a lack of emotion he'd managed to keep carefully hidden behind megawatt smiles and warm hands. There was no room for guilt if you were going to make your living lying and misleading people.

Jane moved quickly to untie her, then pulled the folded blanket from the end of the bed and spread it over her legs. She sat up, but immediately clutched her head from dizziness.

"Hey, lie down and rest. Nothing we can do at the moment anyway."

He sat on the cot beside her as she took his advice, and watched him warily as he gently lifted her hand. He blanched visibly at her bruised knuckles and the red marks from the rope.

"Are you all right," he asked softly, meeting her eyes.

"Yeah," she whispered.

"He didn't—?"

"No," she said quickly. "And I don't think he'll be attempting that on _anyone_ anytime soon."

Jane couldn't help a quick grin.

"Yeah. I saw the other guy," he said in remembrance of how Dumar was limping and bleeding because of her.

He still held her wrist, and she still let him, though her pulse jumped involuntarily when a vision of their recent compulsory kiss flashed in her mind. As he looked into her eyes with concern, she saw a flicker of his own sudden awareness, and she knew instinctively he was thinking of it too. He laid her hand back on the blanket. She swallowed, her throat dry.

"What have they been doing with _you_?"

Jane shrugged. "Well, _I_ got steak and hypnosis."

"What? Why?"

"I'm thinking our host is interested in finding out what makes me tick. All I can say is, I will never eat a rare steak again."

At her frown, he moved his eyes slightly to the left, knowing from his recent view from the camera monitoring their cell that Red John wouldn't be able to see his face.

"Camera," he mouthed.

Her eyes flew involuntarily to the ceiling over his shoulder, but Jane hoped his own head was blocking hers.

"Sound?" she mouthed in reply.

He nodded slightly.

"Shit," she said aloud, and he wholeheartedly concurred. So much for comparing notes or developing an escape plan.

She sat up then, feeling suddenly awkward and self-conscious lying down while prying eyes beheld them. Jane extended a steadying hand to her upper arm, then reached to the floor for her jeans. She took them gratefully and Jane rose to his feet, turning his back while she gingerly pulled them on.

"At least _you're_ a gentleman," she muttered, looking with animosity toward where she presumed the camera was aimed at them.

When she was dressed again, Jane glanced around the cluttered cell, then reached down and picked up the small fruit cup from the floor—the only thing left from her food tray that was intact. The pieces of her steak lay cold and unappetizing on the floor amongst the limp greens from her salad.

He held the fruit and a plastic spoon out to her.

"Here. You'd better eat. This could be it for awhile and my belly is full."

The bit of steak he'd eaten was lodged heavily in the pit of his stomach, and he wished heartily he'd drunk all his wine, but there was no need to tell her all that.

He was right about eating, thought Lisbon, for she knew she needed sustenance to begin healing and to clear her head. She took the small cup from him and sat again, peeling back the plastic cover of what turned out to be diced peaches. She chewed her first bite methodically, the sweetness of the fruit jumpstarting her brain.

Jane sat in the metal folding chair on the other side of the small room, arms across his chest, deceptively relaxed, though his mind was whirling like a top.

"Any idea what they intend to do with us?" asked Lisbon tentatively, mindful of their audience.

"I expect we're the entertainment. They'll toy with us so long as we keep their interest."

 _And then they'll slaughter us like hogs,_ Jane thought grimly, and, glancing at Lisbon, saw she was thinking along similar lines.

"I'm really not interested in being Red John's _Most Dangerous Game,"_ said Lisbon in annoyance. "Whatever it is he wants from us, I'd just as soon he get to it without all the pointless rigmarole."

 _Atta girl,_ thought Jane. _Incite him to let us out of our cage._

As he bent forward slightly, Jane felt the pointed tines of his fork dig lightly into his waist, reminding him that there was still hope for their escape. There was also Cho, who would realize they were missing when he arrived at their empty safe house in San Francisco. Jane was torn between wanting to get on with things as Lisbon desired, and buying time for Cho to find them. But if there was anything Patrick Jane had learned through his long life as a conman, it was that one must always seize opportunities when they came, or risk losing out. He would have to formulate a plan to do that on his own, and hope Lisbon would be able to follow his lead when the time came.

"I agree," Jane replied to Lisbon's declaration. "Keeping us penned up here like animals _is_ rather pointless. Still, if he plans to kill us, every moment he leaves us alone is prolonging our lives. And I don't want to die just yet, do you, Lisbon?"

"No," she said softly, and, looking in his clear green eyes, she genuinely meant it.

Vengeance had motivated her desire to live since Red John had murdered her friends, but now, with the recent warmth of Patrick Jane's lips on hers, a tenuous spark of longing had ignited in her heart. She wasn't foolhardy enough to think she could have a future with this conman, but the mere fact that she could feel something besides anger and bitterness gave her hope that perhaps (if she survived this) she could really start living again.

"Good," he said, and she blushed to think that he had read her thoughts with his knowing gaze.

"Now," he continued, moving to sit on the cot beside her, "if it's entertainment Red John's looking for, we should probably give him what he wants…"

 **A/N: More to come soon, I promise!**


	3. Part II, Chapter 9

A/N: Thanks to all who have welcomed me back so kindly, and who have taken the time to read, re-read, and review. It's nice to be back among friends :)

 **Chapter 9**

Jane purposefully blocked the camera again with the back of his head, while his hand came up to brush Lisbon's hair from her face, his fingers lightly skimming down her temple to her cheek. She flushed involuntarily at the contact, and her eyes grew wide and luminous, the color of Lake Tahoe's Emerald Bay, he mused. She was wary of him, but attracted at the same time, and in her weakened state, she was more vulnerable and uncertain than he'd ever seen her. Still, he had to find a way to tell her his plan without tipping off their audience, and his heart skipped a beat when only one idea occurred to him. Using an old magician's trick, he surreptitiously palmed his hidden fork from his waistband and slid it beneath the pillow.

"Everything will be all right, Teresa," he said, his empty hand moving now to cup her small chin. "I promise."

 _Trust me,_ he mouthed, and before she could give him a slight nod, he was already leaning forward to kiss her. He swallowed the quick, shaky intake of her breath into his own mouth, deepening the kiss while she sat on the cot, frozen into place by the shock of his lips on hers so soon again. Unlike the first time, when he'd been compelled by Red John to quickly satisfy the murderer's perversity, Jane took his time, enjoying the way his lips molded to hers, how she tasted of sweet peaches and sensual woman. For a moment, he completely forgot someone was watching—indeed, his reaction to her took him completely by surprise, and he found himself in the unfamiliar realm of mindlessness.

Teresa Lisbon made him unable to think, to plot, to gauge and modify his own reactions. It felt oddly like being hypnotized, like losing control of his own mind, but in a very, very good way. It didn't take much persuasion to lower her gently to the cot, to get her to allow him to cover her body with his own, for she too had quickly fallen into the bliss of pure feeling. Her small groan of pain from her recent tasings woke both of them from their mutual daze, and Jane kissed his way to her right ear.

He wondered vaguely if she would be able to hear him over the pounding of both their hearts, but he nuzzled into her hair and whispered.

"Push me off and hit me," he said.

She shivered at his warm breath in her ear, and he waited for his words to register.

"No—" she began, but he silenced any additional protest with another searing kiss. _This was good_ , he thought. It sounded like she was resisting him.

Pinning her arms above her head for good measure, he found her ear again, couldn't resist nipping her dainty earlobe before speaking softly once more.

"I have a weapon. We need to get them in here. Fight me off. Make it look good."

She adjusted her hips a little, and he muffled a surprised moan at how good it felt to have her warm and ready beneath him. Then, he met her eyes, saw her clear-eyed acknowledgement of his plan. Before he could steal one last kiss, her police training kicked in and he was thrown violently off her and onto the floor. Her knee had made contact just to the left of the fullness of his groin, close enough that he could fake being hit there. He yelped in feigned injury, clutching himself just before her bare foot made real contact with his nose. His head jerked back and he cried out as every nerve in his face seemed to explode. Droplets of bright scarlet stained his white t-shirt and his hands flew from his erection to his bleeding nose. He looked up at Lisbon in shock, but then had to cover his smile at her brief smirk of satisfaction.

And then she sprang into action, pounding on the cell door and yelling at the top of her lungs.

"Get me out of here! I don't want to be here with this animal!"

 _Good job, Teresa,_ he thought, crawling toward the toilet paper near the commode. He unrolled a handful and pressed it against his bleeding nose.

She kept up the racket a good five minutes, until finally they heard the rattling of the lock on the other side of the door. Jane used the opportunity to go to the bed, pretending to adjust the pillow before lying down, the fork now cold and welcome in his hand. The door was open in seconds, and Dumar stepped in, taser at the ready, his teeth working his nicotine gum in agitation.

"What the hell's going on in here? Can't you two play nice together?"

"He tried to—"

"Yeah, I know," said Dumar with a leer. "Things were getting pretty hot in here. Wait till the sheriff sees."

 _So,_ thought Jane _, the cat was away, leaving only his little pet mouse to guard them._

"Where is he?" said Lisbon. "I demand to see him." She switched to coyness then, showing him her beguiling dimple. "Maybe we could work something out. He doesn't need me. It's this bastard here who he really wants."

Lisbon's seductive tone had Dumar's full attention now, and Jane rose quietly to his feet, his pulse racing though his mind was calmly and rationally preparing him for what he must do.

"True, sweetheart, but he's given _you_ to me."

With his free hand, Dumar grabbed her wrist and pulled her closer, the taser crackling as it neared her side. Lisbon cringed involuntarily, her body remembering the searing pain, and she tensed, waiting, though every fiber of her being screamed to kick his ass. Dumar accurately read her expression, and he chuckled, knowing he had her right where he wanted her, and his eyes darkened, aroused to think she would soon be his to play with. He leaned in to kiss her, careful this time to keep his crotch out of reach of her knees. He grabbed a fistful of her hair, and she cried out, but didn't fight him.

She was taking one for the team, Jane knew, but he wouldn't let her suffer for long. It was two strides from the bed to where Dumar was mauling Lisbon by the door, but Jane made it in one, plunging the fork deeply into the side of his throat. In the movies, cutlery tended to slide into a person like butter; not so in the real world. Jane blanched at how vicious he needed to be to incapacitate the man, pushing the fork as hard as he could before he stepped away in fear. Dumar dropped Lisbon immediately, both hands going to the fork in his throat while a surprising amount of blood seeped steadily from the wound.

 _I must have hit an artery_ , thought Jane. But he and Lisbon didn't stick around to see the extent of Dumar's injury. Jane helped Lisbon to her to her feet and they pushed past the flailing man, slamming the door to the cell and re-engaging the padlock. They stood breathing heavily in the common area between the cells.

"Let's get the hell out of here," said Jane.

"Good idea. Wait…" And then Lisbon walked toward the other cell, peeping into the small round window to see their neighbor.

"Shit," Jane muttered beneath his breath, one hand brushing back his hair in agitation. No way Lisbon was leaving their fellow captive here at the mercy of Red John and his sadistic henchman.

"Hey!" said Lisbon, tapping on the door. A young woman—a girl, really—came to the window. "We're gonna get you out of here, okay?"

"Oh, God," said the girl, relief overwhelming her. "Please!"

"Hold tight."

Teresa looked at the padlock similar to the one on their old cell. She went back to that window and peered inside, almost afraid at what she would see. Dumar was sitting on the floor, trying desperately to staunch the blood oozing from his neck with toilet paper. He held his pistol in his other hand, and weakly, he aimed it at her face at the window.

"Get away from the door!" she yelled to Jane, just before the deafening report of Dumar's handgun echoed throughout the underground cavern. But the bullets didn't go through the door, ricocheting around inside the cell while Dumar cursed a blue streak, then coughed violently until blood dribbled from his mouth.

"Bulletproof metal," stated Lisbon, peeking again into the cell. She zeroed in on the key ring hanging from Dumar's police issue belt. No way she was going to attempt to retrieve it now.

"Dammit. He's got the keys. We're going to have to find something to bash in that padlock on her door."

Meanwhile, Jane was searching the ledge over the doors with his fingers, hoping they'd luck out and find a spare key hidden there. He found nothing.

Lisbon's eyes scanned the dank dungeon, noting the pile of lumber pushed to the side of the common area. She picked up a bat-sized length of two-by-four, then began hitting the padlock on the girl's door. Jane flinched, watching her helplessly. After several tries with no luck, Lisbon lowered the two-by-four in frustration.

"Hey," said Jane consolingly. He took the dented wood gently from her hand and tossed it back on the pile. "There must be other tools around here someplace. Let's have a look around."

Lisbon wiped her forehead with the back of her hand and nodded, then went back to the girl's cell window.

"What's your name?" she asked.

"Maya!" called the teenager, her eyes welling.

"Okay, Maya, we're going to try to find something to break open this lock. Hang tight."

"Don't leave me! Please! He might come back!"

"It's okay. Dumar's locked up," said Lisbon.

"You mean Ted? I'm more afraid of that other guy—his boss," she said shakily. "He's…sick. He's the one who killed my sister…right in front of me." Her voice broke into a sob.

Jane and Lisbon's eyes met, and they both attempted to reassure Maya that she had nothing to worry about now. Or so they hoped. They went to the heavy hatch in the ceiling that led up to the dilapidated house above. It too was locked, though it would need an old-fashioned skeleton key to unlock it—probably an original feature of the old house, since their prison had likely once been used as a root cellar or basement. They would need to find something to unlock that as well.

"This way," said Jane. He stepped back down and led Lisbon toward the other rooms of the old house's basement. They passed through the dining room where Jane had eaten with Red John earlier, then on to a small kitchen where they met with another closed door. Jane tried the doorknob, pleased to find it unlocked. Cautiously, he pushed it open and flipped on the light switch. He felt his heart plunge to his stomach at what he saw. Quite simply, it was a torture chamber.

A stainless steel operating table dominated the small tiled room, along with a shining steel cart containing various knives and instruments of torture, the use for each Jane was too disturbed to guess. Hanging from the walls were sexual appliances worthy of a dominatrix, confirming Jane's contention the man was a sexual deviant. Manacles for hands and feet would keep Red John's victims still on the table, and an IV stand was on hand to chemically enhance the experience. Everything was operating room sterile, the lights bright to almost punishing.

Jane's throat went dry. He had no doubt that Red John's intentions was to eventually get them into this room.

"Holy God," muttered Lisbon behind him, sharing his thoughts, and her hand went unconsciously to the crucifix at her neck.

"There uh, might be something I can pick the locks with," said Jane, forcing himself from his horrified daze. He ignored the implications of the Dremel drill kit he found among the surgical implements and examined the sharp end of a slender, pointed bit.

 _This will do nicely,_ he thought, taking the bit with him.

Lisbon joined him and began surveying the knives on display, trying to stifle her revulsion. She would feel better if she had a weapon. She picked up a particularly lethal one, weighed its heft in her hand, then put it in the back pocket of her jeans. Understanding her thoughts without saying a word, Jane followed suit, found a blade that he knew he could throw expertly, though it had been years since he'd practiced with the carnival sideshow boys. He'd never killed a man with one, but Jane knew his aim was true, and the weapon he chose would do the terrible job effectively.

He met Lisbon's eyes, saw the determination there, the deep inner strength that radiated from her like the heat from a fireplace in winter. He felt that warmth seep into his soul, take away the coldness from their ghastly surroundings. Though he knew they had little time to spare, he bent and lightly kissed her soft lips.

"This will be over soon," he said, lifting his head to meet her solemn eyes.

She nodded once, and, much to his surprise, reached for his hand, lacing her small fingers with his. Jane gladly let her pull him away from the chamber of horrors.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxx

It only took a moment for Jane to pick the padlock on Maya's door, and the girl came out, practically knocking Jane over with her gratified hug. Jane patted her back awkwardly, then gently set her away.

"You're welcome. Now, we need to hurry and escape this place before our host comes home."

He went again to the stairs that led to the door in the ceiling, and expertly picked the lock. Cautiously, he pushed open the door, the two women following, Lisbon and Jane both with their knives at the ready. Jane paused, listening. Hearing nothing, he entered the dark house. The trio walked further inside, the light from the basement becoming more distant as they moved toward the front of the building. No one spoke, their pulses racing. By silent agreement they kept the lights off, the better to make their escape without being seen should Red John return.

But they were too late; the front door of the house creaked open, and their worst fear was realized. Red John flipped on the light switch by the door and they were instantly caught in a circle of bright light. Since there was no time or place to run, they stopped short, their disappointment and fear almost palpable. McAllister was at first disoriented by their presence upstairs, but as he was a cautious man, a trained sheriff, he already held his gun before him. Jane and Lisbon kept their own weapons out, but they feared Red John would still be able to get off a shot before either of their knives hit home.

"Well, well, well. I gotta hand it to you two. You're certainly resourceful," he said, recognizing his own knives in their hands. "Got past Dumar, did you? I hope you didn't leave too much of a mess."

"You'll need the heavy duty cleaners, I'm afraid," said Jane. "Blood stains are sure hard to get out of the carpet."

McAllister's eyes narrowed dangerously. "Drop those knives before I shoot you each in the forehead."

Jane and Lisbon didn't move.

"I think we'll hang onto these for now," said Lisbon. "Jane and I are pretty good at throwing them, and with that old revolver, you'll only be able to pick us off one at a time. You'll be dead before you fire the first shot."

"Now let us go, and no one else gets hurt," said Jane. He really didn't like their odds, since at least one of them would be shot before this was all over. He really wanted to kiss Lisbon though, but not only for her bluffing skills.

Red John laughed humorlessly. "This is your plan, eh? Knives to a gun fight." He pulled back the hammer. "Now drop your goddamn weapons."

"Run, Maya!" cried Jane, in the same instant he threw his knife.

Xxxxxxxxxxxx

Cho and his prisoner rode through San Angelo and then east out of town, retracing Red John's earlier route exactly. He was still uncertain of this, given that he was following Rebecca Anderson's back seat directions. Cho had handcuffed the woman's hands behind her back, put on her seatbelt, then cuffed her ankles for good measure. There would be no suicides, as had happened with a previously captured Red John minion named Lorelei Martins, nor would Cho leave any room for an accidental escape.

Throughout the long drive, Rebecca preached to him about enlightenment and eyes being doors and windows and other New Age nonsense that Cho promptly ignored. Red John was obviously running his show through a cult following, which explained his minions' loyalty and willingness to die for him. It was more like brainwashing rather than a religion, Cho decided, and he almost felt sorry for Rebecca. He would have perhaps tried to get her help had she not been responsible for killing his friends. He frowned, forcing himself to loosen his tense hold on the steering wheel.

"How much further?" he asked impatiently, interrupting her mention of something called Visualize.

"Not far. You'll come to a turn onto a dirt road soon. Take a right."

Cho's cell phone rang, and he answered it without looking at the caller ID.

"Cho."

"Hey, man, it's Haffner."

It was Ray Haffner, a colleague in the CBI assigned to the Red John case. He kept Cho updated on any new developments, even though he risked getting in trouble for it if the powers that be found out.

"Hi. What's up?" Cho glanced in the rearview mirror at Rebecca, who was politely silent as he spoke on the phone, but he was certain she would be listening intently to try to hear both sides of the conversation.

"We have another apparent Red John victim, though this one was a little different than the others. Young girl-teenager. Emma Plaskett. She was probably killed somewhere else and dumped in Crocket State Park in San Angelo County. The smiley face was painted on a nearby tree in blood."

Cho was silent a moment, processing. It couldn't be a coincidence that Rebecca Anderson was taking him to Red John's location, somewhere in San Angelo County. He felt a chill course through him, and when he looked at Rebecca again, she was smiling.

"Any leads?" Cho asked Haffner.

"Nothing, but we're still investigating. Her twin sister, Maya is missing. I'll let you know if there's anything new."

"Thanks."

"No problem. Oh, and Cho—you hear from Teresa lately?"

Cho knew that Haffner had had a thing for Lisbon, which was another reason he kept in touch with Cho.

"Yeah. She's fine," said Cho vaguely.

He was tempted to tell him that Lisbon and Patrick Jane had been kidnapped, but he didn't want to wait for permission from on high to proceed, and Cho still had the sickening sensation that time was running out. Besides, if he found Red John, he didn't want anyone to stop him from killing the man. There would be no trial for the serial killer, if Cho had anything to do with it, no way for him to lawyer up and use whatever pull he had in the California judiciary to wriggle out of the noose.

"Well, next time you talk to her—"

"I'll tell her hi," said Cho. He thanked Haffner again and disconnected.

"Turn here!" said Rebecca suddenly.

Cho slammed on his brakes and turned onto the country road, the back of his car fishtailing as he hit powdery dirt. When he righted his vehicle, he drove onward more slowly, putting his high beams on to better see the dark road. Soon they passed beneath the old farm's archway, and he proceeded with mounting tension. They were close; he could feel it.

Suddenly, a figure appeared before him, running as best she could along the side of the road in bare feet. She wore a dark tank top and shorts, her pale skin the only thing that had kept Cho from hitting her. He stopped the car, but she ran on, giving a little scream of fright, her blonde hair flying.

"Hey, wait!" called Cho. "Do you need help? I'm with the police."

"I don't trust the police," she said, and moved off the road and into the cover of the foliage. Cho ran after her.

"Please! I'm not gonna hurt you! I'm looking for my friends, Teresa Lisbon and Patrick Jane. You seen them?"

The sound of her movement in the bushes halted, and she reappeared on the road. By the light of the moon and the car's red taillights, he saw how young she was, saw her tear-streaked face, and a wayward premonition occurred to him.

"Maya?"

Her frightened eyes grew larger still. "Yes. How—how-?"

"We found your sister, Emma," he said slowly. He wondered if she knew.

"Oh, God. Emma." Her hands came up to her face and she sobbed. Cho walked closer to her. "He killed her."

"I'm sorry," said Cho anxiously, "but my friends—do you know where they are?"

"Yeah, he's got 'em."

"Who?

"Red John, they called him. Down the road in an old house. Your friends helped me escape, but—"

Just then, the distant report of a gunshot broke the stillness of the night.

 **A/N: Yes, another cliffie ;) I took some liberties with the setting, as you sticklers for details might have noticed. For one, Red John has had more time to update his underground lair, so that's why there are a lot of differences from "Red John's Footsteps." For another thing, this is an AU, so I can do what I want, lol. Thanks again for reading. More on the way.**


	4. Conclusion and Epilogue

A/N: Thanks so much for the reviews of my last chapter. Sorry I didn't have time to reply personally to all of them, but it has been an extremely busy couple of weeks. So here, to make it up to you, is the extra long conclusion and epilogue.

P.S.: There are some M-rated bits toward the end, just so you know.

 **Chapter 10: Conclusion**

Jane's knife stuck firmly into Red John's right shoulder, and before he could fire off a shot, the serial killer dropped his gun reflexively, where it clattered onto the stained linoleum floor. Lisbon's knife found its mark as well, deeply implanting into the man's stomach while he grunted in surprised pain.

Red John dropped to his knees, swaying there a moment, his shocked blue gaze sweeping from Jane to Lisbon while his good hand rested on the knife in his belly. Lisbon retrieved the gun and pointed it steadily at the man who had murdered her friends. She could end all of this now—end _him_ —and finally be able to get on with her life. Her hand grew damp on the black metal, her finger hovering over the trigger.

Jane, however, had other plans, and he blocked her aim, moving toward McAllister, his foot coming up to violently kick him in the chest. McAllister fell backward with an _oomph_ of lost breath, and lay on his back, bleeding from his two wounds, his shallow pants filling the room. Jane knelt beside him, looked into Red John's crystal blue eyes. He seemed to be recovering from the shock, and now he appeared angry at being thwarted so easily.

"Jane," cautioned Lisbon. He glanced back at her, met her eyes, and she said no more, though her hand didn't falter in its grip on Red John's gun. She understood completely what Jane must be feeling, and soon, she too would have her own moment with the man. She could be patient.

"Now, you bastard," said Jane, his voice tight with emotion, "give me a reason why I shouldn't carve you up like you did Matt, like you did so many others?"

"Because…" the injured man managed haltingly, "…you…don't…have…the balls."

Jane's hand rested on the knife embedded in McAllister's belly, and he gripped the handle, twisting a little as Red John moaned aloud. Jane's mouth formed a ghastly smile of satisfaction. He was feeling so many different things in that moment—fear, sadness, anger-but foremost was the desire to make this monster pay.

"Tell me, Thomas, can you see beyond this moment," Jane said mockingly, recalling Red John's words to his victims. "Can you see the light of knowledge from within your mind's eye?"

McAllister chuckled, the sound turning into a sickening cough of pain. "More than someone like you will ever see for yourself, Patrick."

As he spoke, in what seemed to be an unconscious movement, Red John's bloody hand slid down from his stomach wound to alight on Jane's leg. He looked up at Jane as he gave his knee two hard squeezes, his voice suddenly low, intense, compelling.

"Do it now, Patrick."

Jane pulled the knife cleanly out of his stomach, ignoring his gasp of agony. Jane stood slowly, the weapon still dripping with Red John's blood. He turned toward Lisbon, the knife held before him in a threatening pose, though when Lisbon looked at his face, it was completely devoid of emotion. His blue-green eyes had lost their light, and he moved toward her like an automaton.

"Jane?"

"I'm sorry, Teresa," he said, though he didn't sound sorry, "but I have to do this."

"Put down the knife, Jane," she soothingly, as if to a frightened animal. She backed up as he continued to advance slowly upon her.

"You don't know what you're doing," she continued, trying to reason with him, though by then she knew he was under Red John's control. "I will shoot you if you don't stop."

But he did not stop.

"I'm sorry," he repeated.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw McAllister sitting up, his left hand pulling the knife out of his shoulder. Her heart pounding loudly in her ears, she watched as he got gingerly to his feet, clutching his stomach while Jane continued to come toward her with his knife. Soon she felt the change from cold tile to dusty old carpet beneath her bare feet, as Jane forced her back into the living room.

"What are you going to do, Teresa?" taunted McAllister. "Jane will stop at nothing unless I tell him to stop. And if you kill me, there will be no one to pull him out of his trance. I know how much you want me dead after what I did to your friends, but I've seen you with Patrick. There's some pretty heavy chemistry between you two. This isn't working out exactly as I had planned, but turns out, I'm liking this scenario even better. You have your own little _Sophie's Choice_ here, don't you? Damn, I'd hate to be you right now." With a labored cough, he spat blood onto the linoleum.

"And I'd _really_ hate to be you," she replied. She stopped; her mind turning suddenly calm with the knowledge that the madman had underestimated her.

She pulled the trigger without hesitation.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Cho tossed his phone to Maya. "Call 911!"

Cho had run maybe two yards when he'd heard a second shot. He'd poured on the speed, ducking between the cross hatch opening in the white gate, only slowing when he made it to the porch of the old house, gun drawn. Slowly, he walked up the steps. At the door, he stilled to listen, fighting against the adrenalin that compelled him to rush in with gun blazing. Hearing nothing, he turned the doorknob slowly, pushing it open and cringing at its tired creaking.

"Stop right there," said Lisbon. "Or I'll shoot your ass through the door."

"It's Cho," he said, relief rushing through him.

She reached out and pulled the door open, throwing herself into his arms for the first time since Rigsby and Van Pelt's funerals. He held her tightly for a fleeting moment, before gently disentangling himself to step back and look at her.

"Are you all right?"

"Yeah. But Jane isn't."

And now, Cho surveyed the disturbing scene before him. A man who looked vaguely familiar lay dead on the kitchen floor, a single gunshot wound to his forehead, his stomach slowly leaking blood. He still clutched the handle of a wicked looking surgical knife. Clear blue eyes stared blankly at the cobwebbed ceiling. Nearer to the living room, Patrick Jane lay bleeding also, an old rag pressed to his right shoulder. He was out cold. Cho followed with his eyes a thin line of blood that led to another knife halfway across the floor. It would be hard to figure out what had happened merely by the look of things.

"Backup is on the way," he told Lisbon, as she dropped again beside Jane and began applying pressure to his wound.

Then Jane seemed to awaken and began struggling against her, hands coming up as if to get a grip around her neck.

"Hold him down!" said Lisbon. Cho did as he was told, but the man was deceptively strong. Before Cho could ask why Jane was attacking her, Lisbon had punched the fake psychic into silence.

"Thanks. How the hell did you find us?" asked Lisbon.

"Rebecca Anderson," he said. He nodded at Jane. "His hunch was right. I took her by force and made her lead me here."

Lisbon nodded. "I guess we found our mole."

Her mind was still awhirl with all that had transpired, with all that she'd done. She hadn't hesitated to shoot them both just to take back control of the situation Now, however, as her adrenalin was wearing off, fear was setting in. Jane was still in his trance, and she had no idea if he would ever come out of it, and she prayed she had hit him where it would do the least amount of damage. He could still bleed to death before help arrived. She pressed harder on his wound.

"Did you see Maya?" Lisbon asked suddenly, her mind beginning to clear.

"Yeah. She's out by my car. I nearly hit her as she was running down the road. What the hell happened here?"

Lisbon laughed without humor. "I can hardly believe it myself. It's all like a crazy nightmare." She inclined her head toward Red John. "You recognize Sheriff McAllister?"

Cho's eyes widened as he followed her gaze. Now he remembered. They'd worked with him on a case several years before, and Cho had seen him at a state law enforcement fundraiser some time later.

"Napa County?"

"Yeah." Lisbon took a deep, shuddering breath, "He…is Red John."

Shaken anew, Cho stood, walked over to where the dead man lay in a pool of his own blood.

"Jesus," he said under his breath.

Cho stared into those lifeless eyes, felt his own well slightly with emotion. Here at last was the man responsible for his friends' deaths, the evil incarnate who had murdered seventeen other innocent people. And a sheriff, no less. A man sworn to protect and defend people, who had used his sacred trust to satisfy his own bloodlust. Cho felt sick at the stomach, but he also felt a deep sense that justice had finally come for Wayne, Grace, and Bosco. And while he wished he could have been the one to give it to them, Lisbon deserved the satisfaction just as much.

"There's another sheriff locked in the basement," Lisbon added. "And now with Rebecca—well, I wonder just how far Red John's network goes into law enforcement. They'll have to bring in the FBI to investigate, because I sure as hell wouldn't trust anyone in California to do it."

One more long look at Red John's face, and Cho would do his best to forget now. He turned away, striding back to Lisbon and Jane.

"Why are you shooting and pummeling Jane?"

"McAllister hypnotized him, programmed him to try to kill me. You think what he did to all those people was sick—you should see his basement. It's a regular dungeon, complete with torture chamber. He'd prepared it specially for Jane, he and his sick sidekick, Dumar. If we hadn't gotten out of there when we did—" She shuddered and closed her eyes against the horrific images of the surgical room downstairs.

"Hey," Cho said, squatting down beside her, putting his hand on her shoulder. "It's over. Really over."

She met his eyes, and their shared pain eased somewhat. Maybe now both the dead _and_ the living could rest in peace.

"Yes," she whispered, feeling the tears she'd been holding back for so long begin to blur her eyes, then slip down her pale cheeks. Cho added the pressure of his own hands to the man who, intentionally or not, had helped them get Red John.

"We'll find someone to deprogram Jane," Cho said confidently. "The bigger problem now is how to explain all this to the police." _Without losing my job,_ he finished soberly to himself.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

In the madness that followed with the sheriff's department and EMT's arriving, Lisbon couldn't do much more than follow Jane on his gurney ride to the ambulance. He hadn't come to since she'd knocked him out, and she warned the medics he could be dangerous upon waking. They strapped him down securely to the gurney, and Lisbon watched in trepidation as they drove away into the night.

Cho had called Haffner, who would be arriving within the hour via helicopter, bringing, with Cho's urging, an agent with the FBI. Even with the bare bones of his explanation, Haffner was not happy with the junior agent, and Cho knew his entire career was on the line here. In his defense, he could say that he didn't think he could trust anyone in law enforcement, and given that the casualties/suspects were two sheriffs, and that Red John had a mole within the CBI, that could either support his claim or hurt him irrevocably.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Lisbon arrived at the hospital in San Angelo early the next morning, exhausted from the relentless questioning by Haffner and FBI Agent, Dennis Abbott. Still, she was anxious to know of Jane's condition after his surgery. Cho had dropped her off, having been given the assignment of returning Maya to her family. Lisbon had been released by Haffner, but there would be another round of interrogations that afternoon, and no doubt a serious investigation into all the California law enforcement agencies. Lisbon certainly didn't envy being a state employee under the FBI's microscope. While there had been no charges filed against her (yet) for the death of one sheriff and the assault on another, she knew she would be embroiled in this mess for some time to come.

Hearing of Patrick Jane's surgery and his involvement in yet another death, the press had descended upon the hospital like locusts. Without any familial ties to Jane, and with no police credentials, it was impossible for her to get any more information than the press could from the tight-lipped nurse in the small town hospital: Jane was out of surgery and in stable condition.

Lisbon supposed that was good news, but she was desperate to see him, to look into his eyes and see if the real Patrick Jane had returned, or whether he still wanted to murder her. Half the San Angelo Police Department had been summoned for crowd control, some likely stationed by his hospital room door upstairs, so there would be no sneaking in for Lisbon. She would just have to go home and await a call from Cho.

 _ **Two weeks later…**_

Jane stood outside the old Catholic Church that for one night two weeks before had been his sanctuary. It seemed now like two _years_ , and he paused to take in the structure in the light of day. It wasn't nearly as imposing as it had seemed that night, when he and Lisbon had been worried and tense that Red John might have followed them, but it was still beautiful, still peaceful and serene in the quiet neighborhood. It was a haven now for Lisbon.

He had neither seen nor heard from her since his surgery to remove the bullet from his shoulder, and the day she'd visited him with Cho had been a hazy blur of painkillers and the residual effects of his hypnotic trance. He'd awakened with no memory of what Lisbon told him had happened, but he'd felt acute anger at Red John's violation of his psyche. He was grateful to Lisbon for saving him from a life of mental enslavement, not to mention the fact that she'd taken Red John out of the world. Still, it would have felt good to kill the man himself with his bare hands.

After she'd filled him in, Jane had grabbed Lisbon's small hand in the hospital, apologizing profusely for the position he had put her in. She had squeezed his hand and kissed his cheek, but then she had disappeared. After a few days of trying to weasel her phone number out of Cho, he no longer answered Jane's phone calls.

Jane had been released from the hospital a couple of days later, but then had begun the barrage of CBI and FBI questioning in Sacramento. He'd brought his lawyer with him, given that his fingerprints were on both the knives found in Red John's kitchen, but the police were inclined to believe his story, and, he gathered, they seemed to have cleared Lisbon as well. Cho, on the other hand, had been put on mandatory leave for offenses ranging from unlawfully restraining a witness to obstruction of a police investigation. Agent Cho's future with the CBI wasn't looking too bright. He felt bad for Cho, but they had all assumed the risk for their actions, and he didn't think Cho was regretting anything now that Red John was dead.

But Jane couldn't let any of it go just yet, not without getting closure with Lisbon. His lawyer tracked down the address of her apartment, and Jane showed up there, driving his rental car awkwardly with one arm in a sling. He knocked for five minutes with no answer, before peeping through the mail slot in her door. Bills and junk mail were piled on the floor inside. Obviously, she hadn't been home in days. He had seen her picture on the news often as he lay in the hospital, then at a Sacramento hotel as he'd continued recovering. The press had probably staked out her place too, so she had likely abandoned her apartment until things quieted down.

Jane hadn't known her long, but he felt like he _knew_ her, which was why the very next place he looked was in her own private safe house. When he saw a Mustang parked near the back door, he knew she had to be there. Of course an all-American girl like Teresa Lisbon would drive a Mustang.

He grinned and adjusted the wig/hat disguise he'd worn just for her and knocked on the door. He stood back and looked up at the security camera with a grin.

"Teresa," he called. "It's Jane. Open up." He held up an envelope with his good hand. "I need to settle our bill."

Inside, Lisbon stared with a fluttering heart at the monitor. She was glad beyond measure that he was up and around and even smiling, but she still felt deeply responsible for the sling that he wore, which was why, in a rare show of cowardice, she had stayed away from him. _God, he is beautiful though_ , she thought idly, and flashes of the kisses they'd shared made her stomach do a little flip. His showing up here didn't mean anything, she told herself. He was just here to pay for her security services, such as they were, though she couldn't help thinking _she_ owed _him_ for her monumental failure in that regard.

"Quit thinking about it and open the door," said Jane into the camera, and she felt her lips form their first smile in days.

She opened the door. Face to face, both of them felt a little breathless, and they stood staring shyly at each other for several awkward seconds. It was Jane who finally cleared his throat and smiled gently.

"I hadn't received a bill," he said lamely, holding out the envelope. She didn't take it.

"I can't accept that," she said. "Your hospital bills alone—"

"I have good insurance," he said. "If you're feeling guilty, Teresa, you must have forgotten that I was supposed to be the bait. Our plan worked brilliantly— _too_ brilliantly, really, but all's well, etcetera, etcetera…"

"Maybe for us," she said. "But Cho…"

"I know. But he's a big boy. Give this money to him if you like. He might have shot himself in the foot with the CBI, but a talented guy like him won't be without employment for long. He was the cop who helped bring down Red John."

"Yeah," said Lisbon softly.

The conversation fizzled, and they were both left feeling awkward again.

"Look," said Jane finally, "Can I just come in for a minute. I'd really like to take off this damn hat."

He finally got a little quirk of her lips, and he felt the familiar triumph of eliciting at least a semblance of a smile from her.

"Sure," she said, and stepped aside so he could come in. The moment the door closed behind him, he took off the hat, ruffling his real hair with his left hand.

"Thanks," he said, and he tossed the disguise on the kitchen counter. "I believe I owe you one of these too."

She moved into the kitchen, needing something to do with her nervous hands. "Would you like some tea?"

"Yes. I think you got me addicted to it. It's the only thing that settles my stomach with all the pain meds I've had to take."

She grimaced a little. "I'm sorry," she said, looking guiltily up from the teakettle.

"Hey, don't be. I'm fine, really. I'll be good as new in no time. If you need absolution from me, you've got it. God knows I'm in need of it myself. I just couldn't get on with my life without at least saying goodbye, Teresa. But seeing you now, I—" he swallowed at the serious turn his feelings had taken—"I don't know if that's what I really want. I mean, we can still be friends, can't we?"

Lisbon didn't honestly know if they could just be _friends_ , given what they'd been through together, given what they'd _done_ together. Given that she hadn't been able to stop thinking about him, and not just in concern for his recovery. She must have shaken her head at her own thoughts, for Jane frowned.

"I must have lost my touch all of a sudden," said Jane grimly. "I can't seem to read you right now. Maybe it's because you make my head a little muddled."

He laughed without humor, running his hand through his blonde curls again, this time in agitation. He walked into the small living area, remembering how he'd awakened on that couch from a nightmare, how Lisbon had held his hand to comfort him.

He noticed a small pamphlet on the coffee table, and he felt himself grow pale, his heart squeezing painfully. He bent to pick it up, to look at the face so similar to his own. It was the memorial booklet from Matt Denny's funeral service. Jane had been so hopped up on pain medication that he'd missed his friend's funeral.

"You went to this?"

She joined him in the living room. "Yes. Cho and I. I was going to send that to you…"

It touched him more than he could express, the fact that they had traveled all the way down to LA to attend in his place.

"Thank you," he said simply.

She nodded in reply, meeting his eyes, suddenly bright green with unshed tears.

"Matt was a good man," he added, and he cleared his throat at his sudden emotion.

"If the number of those attending was any indication, he was well-regarded by many. It was a lovely service."

The teakettle began its soft whistle, and Lisbon moved to take out two mugs. She nodded toward the couch when she returned with their tea, and they both sat, the air filling with tension as well as the fragrance of soothing chamomile.

The moment she joined him, he turned on the couch and took her hand.

"I'm having trouble," he admitted lamely. "Getting on with…things."

Her soulful eyes met his. "I know what you mean. I've gone to four AA meetings since I got back."

He squeezed her small hand, so deceptively delicate. This hand had held the gun that killed Red John, had shot _him_ to save them both. Impulsively, he brought it to his lips, closing his eyes at the heady sensation of her soft skin against his mouth.

"I've missed you," he whispered. "I've… _needed_ you, and that hasn't happened to me in a long time, needing anyone for anything except picking up my dry cleaning." He smirked at the irony of it.

"Jane—" She attempted to pull her hand away, but he held it fast.

"Please, just hear me out, okay? I'm sure you must be thinking that whatever this is between us was just from the heat of the moment, from the necessity of our predicament. But we both felt something, and I know you can't deny it. The question now is, well…would you like to see if there's still something there for us in the real world?"

She rose anxiously, and this time he let her go. "Even if there is, how can this ever work. For one thing, you're in LA—"

"I could move—"

She dismissed his proclamation with a waft of her hand. "For another, if there's any hope for either of us moving on from this tragedy, don't you think we should be away from any constant reminders of it?"

" _I_ would constantly remind you of tragedy?" he said, his voice filled with hurt.

"Yes. No. I don't know. Can you honestly say I wouldn't remind _you_ of Matt's death?"

"Only to the extent that you were part of my life at that time, that you helped me through it. That you avenged his death for me."

He rose then, stilling her nervous pacing with a hand on her upper arm. "Nothing about you saddens me, Teresa. On the contrary, the thought of you is what has kept me going. No doubt this experience has changed me. _You_ have changed me—but for the better. I'm not sure yet what that will mean for my life, but all I know is I don't want to go back to a life without you in it."

He drew her closer, until he was whispering against her lips. "Please…can't we at least see what this might mean…for both of us?"

Before she could respond, his mouth was on hers, and he was kissing her for the first time without any kind of duress, without having to be mindful of someone watching or interrupting. He poured his entire heart into it, felt her tremble in response, then sweetly open her mouth to him while she slid both hands into his hair.

He moaned at the immediate spark of desire that coursed through his blood, and he wished he could employ both hands in touching her, in molding her trim waist, in pushing her gently rounded buttocks closer to his hardness.

"I want you," he said desperately, as his mouth moved across her jaw to her ear. She shivered and he felt her hands at the waistband of his jeans—he had no trouble reading her intentions now.

"Bed," she said huskily, and, taking his hand, led him down the short corridor to her room.

It was difficult to be patient, now that Lisbon had made up her mind, but she helped him take off his sling, gently lowering his arm before unbuttoning and carefully slipping it off. He stood still, letting her undress him, his breathing loud in the small room. She kissed and caressed each bit of his skin as she revealed it, and his left hand came up to press the back of her head closer. His knees grew weak when her mouth found his sensitive flat nipple and gently nipped it with small, white teeth.

"Bed," he repeated her word much more forcefully, and, chuckling softly, she pushed him back the two feet to the mattress. He sat down, and she finished what she'd started in the living room, pulling off his jeans while he toed off his shoes.

Clad only in his boxers—the expensive silk variety—he watched as she stood back and very helpfully undressed herself for him. He had imagined from the feel of her beneath him on Red John's cot what she must look like, knew that her breasts would be high and firm, her stomach flat and lightly muscled, her hips pleasingly curved. But the impact of actually seeing his fantasy realized hit him directly in the groin, especially when she removed the practical matching white cotton of her bra and bikini panties to reveal the treasures hidden beneath. His boxers became uncomfortably full.

Reaching up, Lisbon freed her dark hair from her ponytail, and it cascaded sleekly around her shoulders. She met his eyes boldly despite her nakedness, and Jane's mouth went dry.

"Come here," he rasped, and she moved seductively closer, pushing lightly on his chest until he was laying flat on her bed atop her grandmother's quilt. He grunted a little as pain shot through his shoulder, and she stopped in concern.

"You okay?"

"Don't worry about hurting me. Do your worst. I can take it."

She bent then and reverently kissed the bandaged wound on his chest. "I'm sorry," she whispered to it. Touched, Jane pulled her mouth up to his, kissing her ardently, willing her to feel his forgiveness.

Aching to touch more of him, Lisbon moved off the bed again to help him slip off his underwear, grinning at the difficulty of removing the garment over his erection. Then, gripping him with her strong hand, she slid up the engorged shaft till she found the dewy tip with her thumb. He gasped with pleasure, then pulled her hungrily on top of him. She straddled his body, moving her own wet heat forward and back upon him with agonizing slowness, until she was in danger of driving them both crazy with desire.

Bending forward, he caught her breast in his mouth, found the bud of the other with deft fingers. She cried out as he suckled hard, her body stilling as she paused to enjoy the incredible sensation. She was on the very edge of release when Jane reached down to circle the sensitive pearl within her folds, and soon she came apart beneath his hand, crying out her pleasure while his mouth continued to worship her breasts. She had barely recovered when Jane found that he himself could take no more, the sensual undulations of her body against him almost too pleasurable to bear.

He guided his erection inside of her, his mind going blank as pure feeling inundated him with sensation. Lisbon began once more to move, taking him in so deeply he thought he might cry with the pleasure of it. He let her set the pace, wishing he could take the pain of covering her body with his own, but enjoying still the vision of her moving above him, her breasts swaying enticingly, her head thrown back in renewed passion.

"Yes," he said, as she took him impossibly deeper. "Yes," he said on a groan, as she nearly released him, then glided forward to take him home again. His mantra changed to her name, and he repeated it mindlessly until he lost the power of speech altogether, and it echoed in his mind with each beat of his heart…

Xxxxxxxxxxxxx

She fed him strawberries in bed, having bought them from a farmer's market just that morning. They spoke of nothing important, laughing and kissing frequently between bites, the fruit an added sweetness to what had passed between them. When he took a ripe berry and pressed it to her nipple, things accelerated quickly again, and he joined with her where they sat, his mouth seldom leaving hers except to cry out in ecstasy.

They slept after that, awakening to the colorful glow of the setting sun through the stained glass window high above her bed.

"This doesn't bother you," he said, tracing the cross at her neck as she snuggled into his left side. "Making love in a church with a man who isn't your husband."

He felt her smile against his chest. "I suppose it does now, a little, but I admit I had totally forgotten where we were the moment you kissed me."

"That's twenty Hail-Mary's for you, young lady," he said, kissing the top of her head.

She leaned her head back so she could kiss his firm jaw, inhaling the intoxicating scent of expensive cologne. She felt her eyes prick suddenly with emotion. "This feels so right between us, I know that God will forgive me."

He was quiet for so long that she thought she might have frightened him off with her words, but when he began to snore softly, she relaxed against him, falling asleep once more with a contented smile.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

 **EPILOGUE**

 _ **Six months later…**_

"RVB Investigations," said Lisbon, pausing by the front desk to pick up the phone in her brand new office overlooking Tower Bridge. Their secretary was on her lunch break, and Cho and Jane were out tracking a new lead on their current missing person case. She nodded at the man in the waiting room.

"Sure," replied Lisbon to the woman's inquiry. She flipped a page in the appointment book and found an empty spot the next week. "We can fit you in next Friday at nine. Is that okay?"

Lisbon glanced up to where a large framed picture of her company's namesakes dominated one wall. It was a snapshot taken on her phone at their last CBI Christmas party, and she'd caught Rigsby, Van Pelt and Bosco together, drinks in their hands, laughing at some joke-probably of Rigsby's telling, given their reactions. Rigsby had his arm around Van Pelt's waist, and Bosco's blue eyes twinkled with good humor. She couldn't remember for the life of her what they'd been laughing about, but something had compelled her to snap the picture. It made her tear up a little every time she looked at it.

When Cho had lost his job, he'd come to Lisbon for temporary work. His reputation stained, he could no longer find a position in California law enforcement, and with the way the FBI had handled the Red John purge, he hadn't even considered working for them. Staff had been needlessly fired, paranoia taking over as the investigation deepened into Red John's network. Police, CBI Agents, and even judges were found to be connected to the killer. The CBI was closed temporarily, so Cho would have lost his job anyway.

Cho and Lisbon decided to get their private investigators' licenses and open an office together, expanding her security business and finding some actual office space. They'd decided on something modest, in a less expensive part of town, but when Jane had made them an offer to invest, they'd found themselves in the swankiest part of the city.

What's more, Jane had offered his services as a partner, using his observational talents for good instead of evil, he'd told Lisbon with a smile. Jane too had decided to change his occupation, and Lisbon had seen just how much their confrontation with Red John had affected him. He quite simply was tired of lying, tired of conning naïve people out of their money. He would always blame his own arrogance for Matt's death, and actually helping people instead of manipulating them seemed a small way to make reparation for what he'd done. Pulling himself out of the limelight was another, so he'd chosen not to renew his contract for his talk show, fired his publicist, and set about living a quieter existence.

He'd enjoyed helping the police in the past, but found the idea of helping Lisbon and Cho even more rewarding, because he actually liked them, wanted to help them for mostly altruistic reasons. Working with Lisbon every day was an added bonus; using his brain to find missing children or to bust a serial adulterer was another. His fame had brought him millions, more than enough to live off his other investments for a lifetime if he lived more frugally. And so he sold the house where Matt had been murdered and rented the penthouse apartment in the same building where RVB was housed.

When word leaked that the famous Patrick Jane was working as a private investigator, the business poured in, but the three partners agreed they would be very particular in the cases they accepted, sometimes even taking on charity cases that the police wouldn't touch. After their business had flourished in less than a month, Jane awoke one morning to find that for the first time in his life, he was genuinely happy.

And so when Jane and Cho arrived back at the office, after having discovered their so-called missing person had actually been living a double life with his polygamous spouse in the next town, Jane walked over to Lisbon and gave her a smacking kiss right in front of Cho and the man waiting in the reception area.

"Hey," she hissed, her facing flushing pink. "What have I told you about doing this in the office?"

"Forgive me Lisbon. I was just so happy that we'd solved yet another case, didn't we Cho?"

"Yeah," Cho agreed, silently shaking his head before heading to his office and shutting the door.

"Lisbon, may I have a word with you in your office please? Excuse us, will you, sir," he added, grinning at the man. "We'll be right with you." The man smiled back knowingly.

In his suit coat pocket Jane could almost feel the weight of the extra keycard to his apartment. He would ask Lisbon to move in with him, right after he professed his deep, abiding love for her. He'd planned to cook her a fancy dinner that night before he asked her, but suddenly, he found he couldn't wait.

The minute he closed the door behind them, he pulled Lisbon into his arms, kissing her until they were both breathless.

"Jane," she began, and he kissed her again to stifle her chiding tone. When he lifted his head again, she was suitably dazed and speechless.

"Now, just listen for a minute, okay?"

She nodded dumbly.

"Good girl."

She frowned at his sexism, but he merely smiled. "Now, there's been something I've been meaning to tell you, and I know it might seem like it's too soon, but actually it probably isn't considering I've been in love with you since that day we made love in the church…"

She blinked. "You—what?"

He kissed her on the nose, charmed anew by her adorable confusion—a look she tended to get often with him.

"Come on, Teresa, keep up. I love you. And I want you to move in with me."

With a flourish, he seemed to magically draw out the key card from the slight cleavage revealed by her button-up blouse.

Lisbon's heart squeezed at his admission and she looked at the card before her, but she did not take it. Instead, she reached up and caressed his handsome face. "I love you too," she said, "but the answer is no."

"No?" Had he heard her right?

"No. I'm sorry. If you want me to live with you, you've got to give me a good reason. Your loving me is a lovely one, but I'm the kind of woman who needs more than that."

She pulled out of his arms and walked over to the picture window on the seventeenth floor. "I need more from you, Jane."

He moved to stand behind her, trying to suppress his exasperation.

"Look, I've invested in your business, signed a lease for this choice office space with this stunning view, worked by you and Cho diligently the past few months to make this place a smashing success. Turned my whole life around in more ways than one. Now, I've confessed my love—what more could you want from me, woman?"

She turned to look at him, and he was struck by the way the light from the window haloed her mahogany hair. She was his angel, his saving grace, and he knew it. No matter her request, he wasn't going anywhere unless she kicked him to the curb. And maybe not even then.

"I want guarantees," she said.

His eyes narrowed. "You mean like a contract or something?"

She cocked her head, considering. "Eventually."

And then it dawned on him. She wanted a marriage proposal.

His face fell in disappointment, and he stepped away from her uneasily.

"Lisbon, there's a reason I've never married."

"Oh? I've been meaning to ask you why."

"My parents. They were a complete train wreck. My mother was way too good for my father. She lowered herself to marry him, leaving her wealthy family to travel with him on the carney circuit, believing that their love could overcome anything. I watched them grow to hate each other, she resenting that he couldn't give her the kind of devotion she'd married him for; he because he claimed she knew what she was signing up for. They divorced when I was twelve, and my dad fought to keep me with him. As the Boy Wonder, I was his bread and butter, you see. They both died bitter and alone. I never want to put a woman through that kind of hell, and I certainly don't want to bring children into the mix."

She stared at him in wonder, for this was the first time he'd said anything about his parents more than in passing.

"A bad husband isn't hereditary, Jane," she said. "And as you have rightly pointed out, you've changed. I'm not asking for a proposal—not right now anyway. We've only known each other for six and a half months. I just want to know that we both want the same things in life. That marriage and a family are in our future. Otherwise, what's the point? I'm not getting any younger, you know. It sounds cliché, but I can feel my biological clock ticking as we speak. So…if there is no chance you could ever want these things with me, let me go. Don't—don't waste my time."

She felt the tears begin to fall and she reached for a tissue from her desk.

Every instinct compelled him to go to her, to promise her everything she asked for and give her the moon and stars besides.

"Can I think about it?" he asked hesitantly.

She nodded, unable to form the words to say more.

He left her then, and she wondered if she would ever see him again.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxx

The city lights had just come on when Lisbon heard the knock at her door. Her heart picked up speed.

"Come in."

It was Cho. "I'm leaving, Boss," he said, though they were equal partners. She'd given up trying to correct him.

"Okay. Good night."

"You all right?" He asked, noting her blood shot eyes and blotchy face. She hadn't emerged since Jane had left earlier. There was trouble in paradise, but Cho had learned to stay out of such things long ago when Rigsby and Van Pelt—maybe if he'd pushed those two together sooner, they would have had a lot more time together before they died, he realized with a start.

"Life's short," he said awkwardly. "I know Jane loves you. Whatever it is, work it out."

She smiled in surprise that he'd given such personal advice. "Thanks, Kimball."

He nodded. "'Night."

Jane passed Cho at the elevator landing. "Don't be an idiot and screw this up," he said to Jane. Then, as an afterthought: "You break her heart, and I'll kill you."

The elevator door had closed on Cho's stern face before Jane could formulate a suitable reply.

Jane grinned, patting his breast pocket confidently.

Lisbon's door was still open, and he could see her sitting at her desk, staring pensively out at the city.

"Hey," he said, knocking on the open door.

She sat up. "Yes?"

He walked over to her, and pulled a folded document from his pocket. He unfolded it and pushed it across her desk. Clearly, it was some sort of a contract.

"I've been with my lawyer," he told her. "I think this should suffice."

Lisbon looked from his pleading green eyes down to the document before her.

"I, Patrick Jane, being of sound mind"-she raised skeptical eyebrows at that pronouncement—"do solemnly swear that if Teresa Lisbon has not received a marriage proposal from me within two years of this date, that she may collect half of my worldly possessions, including my interests in RVB Investigations."

Her eyes scanned to the end, where he had signed and dated, and had even had it witnessed and notarized.

"This wasn't necessary," she said.

"You wanted guarantees."

"Your promise would have been good enough for me."

He paused, swallowing nervously. "I promise—all that and more. Give me two years to get used to the idea, okay? And who knows, it might take considerably less time than that."

She regarded him thoughtfully, trying to gauge his sincerity. The past few years had been unimaginably tough. Indeed, there had been times she had wanted to give up, to drown herself in a bottle like her father had. With the death of Red John, the weight upon her soul had lifted, and with Jane in her life, she had begun to refill the holes the loss of her friends had left in her heart. Now he was standing here, offering her what she had thought would be impossible for her. She loved this man, she thought in wonder. What's more, he loved her.

With a small smile, she stood and held out her hand.

"All right then. Give me the damn key card, Jane."

 **THE END**

 **A/N: Thanks for joining me in finishing this story at last. I hope you enjoyed it. I can't make any promises myself that I will write any more for this fandom, but I certainly have enjoyed coming back for a brief visit. I will always adore these wonderful characters, as much as I adore those of you in this fandom.**


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